


the tragedy of the commons

by subchesters



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bloodborne Fusion, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Body Worship, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Dismemberment, Gothic, Horror, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Keith & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, M/M, Marking, Minor Character Death, Minor Hunk/Lance (Voltron), Minor Luka/Allura/Romelle (Voltron), Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Body Modification, POV Shiro (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Fantasy, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 05:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 80,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17543228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: Shiro is a disgraced knight, his homeland destroyed by a vengeful covenant of hunters and cursed with a metal arm of forbidden arcane magic, finds himself in the aid of a famous, but lone hunter named Keith, the Crow, who is reluctant to help Shiro discover what his arm truly is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wenzel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wenzel/gifts).



> [Jake Peralta voice] oh boy...
> 
> Title from [The Tragedy of the Commons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQSnSwKpaVs) by Slow Meadow.
> 
> This was written for the Sheith secret Santa exchange, in which I am terribly late but this grew into a monster. My recipient had asked for a scenario involving horror and putting them in a pressure cooker, so I thought about how I've wanted to write a Bloodborne AU, so this gave me an incentive to do that. Honestly, this mostly happened cause I wanted Keith to wield the [Blade of Mercy](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/6f/67/53/6f6753d1f331395ab1b06a1759dc1b5b.jpg). I'm completely out of my element with this as I'm not used to writing this much plot or having to take it somewhere other than a dick in a bootyhole.
> 
> This AU contains material that is familiar to the Bloodborne world. If you've played Bloodborne and have some knowledge about it, you'll be able to recognize references to some things here. As for newcommers unfamiliar with Bloodborne and have no existing knowledge of it, you won't need to look up information or know what I'm referencing cause I've included explanation within the fic. I'm treating Shiro's character as a newcommer who has no idea what's going on and feeding him information, and thus, giving the reader the same. You will also notice that I altered speech patterns. I can't completely emulate old English, and Bloodborne does seem to take place during the late 1700s, so I tried to somewhat put that in here.
> 
> This is very un-beta'd, and I will edit this to catch the errors which I know are everywhere.
> 
> I will also fully admit that even the clothing in Bloodborne is too much for me to describe, so I'm going to link below the outfits I'm using instead of spending a million paragraphs on trying to describe them. So, here's a gander at the official concept art of the game:
> 
> Shiro: [Foreign Set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/28/b0/73/28b073c7b1bc0c6699bbdc9e00bc71e3.jpg), and then [Ashen Hunter set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b7/d6/3e/b7d63e8af64b3f5b5a5234c0872a0f5e.jpg). I'ma be real, I like the concept art better than what became the Ashen Hunter's design for the game.  
> Keith: [Crowfeather Set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/43/87/d5/4387d5bc24fa03df3168b10b3eacdfc7.jpg)  
> Lance: [Hunter Set A](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/90/94/25/9094258a410c0bce6f83b0cc80280968.jpg)  
> Hunk: [Tomb Prospector set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/8f/b3/c6/8fb3c652d3410aff91df2cc33140ceb5.jpg)  
> Pidge: [Maria Hunter set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/fa/17/ba/fa17ba3fc402b485b995c8cc8ec57c12.jpg), just minus the shoulder cape.  
> Allura: [Female Knight Set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/97/06/5d/97065dbb1409ea5cd3dabc318854f85f.jpg)  
> Coran: [Male Knight set](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/4b/ff/3a/4bff3af88300f3eec9039b81aa8f473e.jpg)  
> Sendak: [Alfred's concept art](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/bloodborne/images/a/ae/Alfred_Concept_Art_Bloodborne.png/revision/latest?cb=20171211022513) since he basically is Alfred, just less nice lmao.  
> Honerva: [Queen Annalise concept](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/bloodborne/images/a/a5/Annalise_concept_art_1.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20180803102807) since I basically made her Queen Annalise.
> 
> There are beasts that I've used in here, namely, the [scourge beast](http://bloodborne.wdfiles.com/local--files/werewolf/werewolf.jpg), [beast patient](https://bloodborne.wiki.fextralife.com/file/Bloodborne/Beast_Patient_Frontal_Full.jpg?v=1501174692550), and [beast-possessed soul](https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EU4Zg31u6AI/WLbrma3Sn_I/AAAAAAAAP3Q/kjabXHy3-hwFqMSWbqblBVFzusN6uBGGQCLcB/s1600/BeastPossessedSoul.png). There are references to a few others, but these are the main players.
> 
> Also, fuck the brainsuckers, just throwing that out there.

This is going to be the last thing that Shiro looks upon.

There is the sky, there are the clouds that are clustered together, leaving no visible parts of the sky for anyone to discern, with their hues of soft warm colors with the edges that are sharpened with a blue-tinted purple, the mass of it swirling together, crowding the sky. There’s a sunset’s tone grazing against the back of it that suggest sunset is upon him. The thick of the clouds prove too great for sunlight to truly pierce the bottom of the clouds, and instead, leave the clouds highlighted.

There’s a glaze in Shiro’s eyes, his eyelids are drooping; slow, laconic blinks that become longer, lengthening their frequency in between. There’s fire in his lungs, threatens to disintegrate the inside his chest, to burn away at his ribs, incinerate his heart. There’s a heavy, dragging weight against Shiro’s chest, on his legs, in his arms, twining around his flesh and nerves and thickening his blood in ways that would alarm Shiro, would force him to seek out a local doctor or healer of some kind, but—

_But._

There is nothing for Shiro to seek when his bones are now destined to be ash.

Almost all of his bones.

That’s right, his mind on a delay, a heavy film over it; almost all of his bones.

There’s a place, not far from here, covered in dense forest and thick grass, the thick of leaves shredding most incoming sunlight, and the steady scent of woods lingering along Shiro’s tongue, does he remember that to be a resting place for some of his bones. It is his arm’s bones, right inside the mouth of a beast lying torn open on the ground, it’s soft and vulnerable insides smeared across the ground, filthy with dirt and maggots, blood iron scent heavy in the air to attract all kinds of beasts, ready to claim the prize that the beast lost its life trying to obtain.

The scent of rot brings forth all manner of beasts.

Shiro doesn’t remember much, the speed of which everything occurring, leaving him ill-prepared to defend himself, all of it combined with the previous weariness and grief having already settled along his back, many nights having wedged under his skin and into his flesh. He remembers it in flashes: the sound of uncoordinated feet below him, the sounds of torn armor on his body moving with him, his own heavy breath, the sway of trees, the remnants of voices in high-pitched tones expressing their pain and grief and the spill of blood from their mouths and down their chins.

He's starved, he’s tired, his body is an amalgamation of pain and shame that carries the weight of his failings. His feet believe that they can take him from a past that’s filled with smoke and fire and the ash of the things he knew. Shiro can’t stop, he can’t allow his legs to rest, he can’t let _them_ catch him in their continuous pursuit to eradicate all things that their so-called _god_ has told them to champion themselves over.

One misstep, one lone fallen tree limb in his way that his feet catch under and all that vulnerability that Shiro has been trying to stave off comes back in full force. It’s too bad that his vulnerability leaves behind a stench to attract all manner of beings.

There’s the sound of wood snapping, leaves crinkling, and then there’s a growl in Shiro’s ears, a snarl, and oh, he isn’t fast enough, he isn’t able to understand just how close it is—

Shiro is too slow. He’s too slow to move his body into a defensive position, ready to draw his sword, ready to do anything, _something_ , before there’s yellow eyes upon him, a mouth of teeth and spit along his arm and then—and then—

_(“Thou’rt of the best knights in Our blessed kingdom of blood, Shiro. A title earned to giveth Our blood its rightful place. Bear it with honor and serve thine Queen with thine duty as the utmost importance.”)_

Shiro doesn’t remember much, how he was able to pull enough energy together that was almost depleted to stand against this beast, this monster of a creation, and have it fall by his blade.

He collapses somewhere, his body ravaged with exhaustion and blood loss. The torn pieces of his bandages, made from the few pieces of cloth from his own clothes, have twisted and separated enough to fall from what remains of his arm. The wrapping was unsecured and minimal at best since Shiro only had one hand to perform with, the entire process having been wrought with near-blinding pain and trembling fingers slick with blood and dirt, and the task of performing medical treatment was arduous and nearly unsuccessful. With the exposure, his wounds have very little chance of keeping infection and more blood loss at bay, and Shiro cannot find the strength in his body to keep going, to find some kind of help, any person to plead his life to even though Shiro's at what he assumes is the edges of the forest.

There is no way he can make it out of this, there’s no way for Shiro to find the strength in the exhausted spaces of his body to continue this burden of a journey. There is nothing behind him to return to, there is nothing that is in the past that could possibly welcome this disgraced knight back with open arms and soft words of forgiveness. There is no kingdom at his back, there is no warmth of a bed. This is now an aimless journey his feet have taken to is now coming to its last vestiges.

He’s too lightheaded, he’s too weak, there’s too much darkness crowding at the edges of Shiro’s vision, inviting itself into his mind—there’s too much of everything that begins to overwhelm him.

So, Shiro looks at the sky, at the clouds, at the fading sunlight that highlights them, the swirl of colors that result, and he thinks that this isn’t an honorable death, this isn’t the way to settle a legacy, but there’s nothing Shiro can do, nothing can be done, and Shiro will die in a place that will have never known his former glory.

“I am sorry, my queen,” is cracked with regret and acceptance of death.

( _“_ _Did you really think that you impure Vilebloods, your wretched Queen, this kingdom, could ever hope to withstand the judgement of the Church? From God? Your impure ways have come to end, now repent that God will have mercy on your wretched souls.”_

_A sword is at his neck, the ultimatum of death is cool against his being._

_“The world has no such need for your impure kind, it is the will of God.”_ )

The last thing Shiro sees is the sky.

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s a morning where dawn doesn’t bring a savior that will end Shiro’s slow descent into death.

“Oh, what do we have here?”

It’s quite the opposite.

If it weren’t for the death that has been filling Shiro’s lungs, the infection that eats away at his arm, or the starvation that laces through his weakened insides, Shiro would be inclined to do more than just lie here in the dirt, undignified and ungraceful in his defeat as no knight has any business allowing this. It’s against his nature to allow himself a vulnerable look that would encourage any adversary as it is the way of a dignified knight.

He’s nothing but the image of a poor, sad thing.

There’s hardly anything that registers to him outside of the continuous infection that rots away his arm, the visceral death that leaks from him provides a distraction that has dulled his senses. Shiro would, under normal circumstances, listen to his senses, listen to the instincts that tell him to guard, to be on his feet with his sword in hand ready to parry whatever force wants to sink itself into the soft, vulnerable pieces of his soul.

That is a time that’s in a past that has no way of returning to him.

It’s a dead way of life.

There’s the sound of leaves crinkling, the grind of metal that creaks with every step. In the haze of death that’s coating his mind, Shiro can see a figure that walks around his body, he can see a pristine uniform of whites and greys and impeccable crispness of those robes that stand out. A sword by their side, the large, hulking hammer that sits along their back with an inscription of holy runic writing that makes these people believe they are blessed with a holy mission under the eye of God that is nothing more than a deep-seated hatred of things that their religion sees as something that needs to be eradicated.

_(“We know not of the misguided steps that have led to this unholy persecution. Their duty is misguided, tainted, with wretched hands that know not of honor. Their purpose lieth with desire for power, and their purpose is their duty that need not be shed on this world.”)_

Oh, how Shiro longs for his honor to be blessed by his queen.

Shiro is not a vision that is worthy to presented to his queen. He has no land, he has no home, he has nothing that was once held in such a high regard because of his hands that worked so hard to attain such a feat. He is nothing but a decaying shell of his former self, with rot in his arm, his blood failing to keep him alive, and all Shiro can do is die here, in a land that will not know his name. An unmarked grave that is a testimony to how he has failed and further bear his humility in doing so.

The sound of metal stops, and there’s a sound of a sword drawing—this is it, this is Shiro’s moment of being severed from this world. His sword is of no use, his muscles do not bear the intimidation they once had, his honor is no longer a source of inspiration.

“How I could end your life, wretched knight of Cainhurst, and cleanse this world of your filth is of great temptation,” and Shiro’s opens his eyes, the dulled and glassy ashen color trying to track the figure. His eyes face the long edge of a sword that taps against his chest, dragging along the damaged armor in a mockery of some kind of mercy, “I can carry out destroying your wretched line here, in this dirt, where your shame will forever be marked,” and the sword drags along his chest, the pointed end menacing, daring itself to hold back from wanting to coat itself in his blood.

Shiro lets his eyes fall shut, inhaling as he draws in the last moments of his breath before the inevitable, trying desperately to come to terms with how his fate will come to its conclusion.

It’s not quite like that.

“But I do believe the Church could benefit from this.”

Shiro’s eyes creak open, there’s something at the end of his tongue that wants to become known but is nothing more than an unformed sound that resembles protest, as well as an inquiry, that this person—no, this Executioner, the cause of the destruction of his home, his land, his _pride_ , must recognize. There’s something delighted on his face, a sadistic and rogue enjoyment of Shiro’s state.

“Oh,” the man says, like it’s some kind of discovery, “I’m sure the Church will have great importance for you. Just think of this as… your redemption, if you will,” and the sound of leaves rustling grows muted as the person steps away, his back turned to him as he walks away before he stops, hands coming together behind his back to link together, chin tilted upward as blond hair rustles with a breeze that comes through. “Think of it, if you will, as being the very subject that the Church will further its research on to deal with such vile beasts of all manner. All of it starting with you. Oh, this will be an excellent find.”

Shiro can barely understand much outside of the pain and shock that have settled into his bones, inside his marrow, as this Executioner turns around, walking back toward his near-lifeless body. “It’s an honor to be regarded as,” and he pauses, tilting his head, “a subject under the Church for the betterment of mankind.” The man stops beside Shiro’s body, kneeling before him, crouching down into a position to stare at him, “be grateful, _Vileblood_ , that God has seen this as a mercy on your wretched soul. Your redemption, if you will, that may allow you to not be damned to an eternity of suffering for your abomination of an existence.”

Shiro doesn’t want to believe it, he doesn’t want to keep gazing upon this man with this smile on his face, derisive and self-satisfied with the contempt he has for Shiro’s lowly position, finding gratification at the thought of a dying man not being allowed to pass with what little he has left.

“What an honor it will be to finally serve the Church. You should be grateful for this mercy.”

Shiro is suddenly grateful for the black that edges into his vision—

No, no, no, no, _no_ —this—this can’t be happening. Shiro can’t do this, he _won’t_ do this—

There’s a glow that emanates from this man’s hand (Shiro doesn’t remember when this man had even shown his hand) that is raised to his face. The glow is eerie, settled in the palm of a gloved hand.

“I want you to know, knight of _Cainhurst,_ ” and there’s a smugness embedded within the man’s voice, as well as an absolute disgust when the man’s tongue shapes the word of his home, those pompous robes he wears doing nothing to conceal what kind of alliance that Shiro wishes had never trudged its way into his existence, “the name of your savior.” That gloved hand moves ever so closer, moving to hover over his chest, the sight of it nowhere near innocuous that its lowly appearance would suggest.

That—

“Know that it is I, Sendak the Vileblood hunter, loyal to the Church of the Galra, to the Executioners, and rightful purpose of the extermination of the forbidden blood techniques that your kind has cursed upon this world.”

That hand begins to rotate, the turning as it becomes palm down, and Shiro’s eyes widen, his breathing becomes labored, and his muscles tense as he tries to move away. He can’t move, he can’t go anywhere—he can’t—he _can’t_ —

“And starting now, you are going to be the start of the Church’s rightful path to cleansing this world.”

There’s a shock of blinding pain that surges through Shiro’s body, his mouth open on a scream that lodges into his throat as his nerves begin to heat with something that courses through Shiro’s body. It moves through him so fast and so quick but has this thing to it that Shiro can’t quite figure out.

But he knows that it feels alive as it steals the light from his eyes and takes his mind into a darkness he doesn’t know how if he’ll recover from.

Please, let him die on this filthy round with what he has left.

 

 

\--

 

 

He’s going down, down, down, a depth of unimaginable darkness that swallows all awareness outside of it. There’s no end in sight, there’s no bottom, no top, all of it just a dark existence around him.

Shiro can’t yell, he can’t scream, he can’t do much of anything except fall and fall and _fall_ —

There’s an overwhelming amount of panic that becomes a thief in his lungs that takes the air from him, sets ablaze a panic in him at the mere unknown that will happen to him. His palms sweat, his muscles shake, he can’t properly breathe—

 

 

\--

 

 

A spray of blood and smeared on teeth and down a chin that becomes a parody of a satisfied smile.

“I feel,” and more blood, “so sorry for you, my friend.”

 

 

\--

 

 

There is an audience present, dozens of eyes, fingers that lay upon marred flesh with no pretense of kindness in them. Fingers into wounds, nails scraping against exposed flesh, blood that becomes such a sight and smell that is normalized.

An empty vial.

“Are you sure about this?”

A pause. A scalpel raised, smeared with blood, more than what should be necessary.

“For the Church.”

 

 

\--

 

 

There’s no gradual awareness to coming above the waves of unconsciousness that covers the mind from a regular sleep. There’s no slow opening of the eyes, unadjusted to light that seeks refuge inside the room through the fabric of curtains. There’s no yawn at the back of his throat, no cracking of the jaw from sleep, no shaking of the head to clear away the last vestiges of sleep.

He’s screaming.

Shiro is screaming.

His body is alight with—with—

Shiro doesn’t know what it is.

 

 

\--

 

 

Perhaps Shiro has been damned, perhaps it is his past that the Church spoke of that has finally come to claim him and to force him to atone for what happened, but Shiro can’t be sure. He isn’t sure of anything, nothing beyond the sounds coming from his throat, the burning of his lungs, his world tilting as Shiro vaguely notes he’s shifted his body in panic and blind fear that he has hit a solid floor, the impact barely phasing him as Shiro is more concerned with this feeling.

(Perhaps they weren’t so wrong in their beliefs of the impurity of his soul, and that perhaps in this time of weakness, in this inability of Shiro to salvage his mind, Shiro has been brought into the self-important journey of the Executioners.)

This feeling that’s inside his veins, thick and rich, this feeling that traverses the intricate system of veins under his skin, that’s submerged his soul, and isn’t that something that Shiro is going to have to think about when he can somehow get himself under control to really assess this feeling. Instead, Shiro is on his knees, his back is hunched, so exposed and vulnerable to whatever force wants to feast upon the lifeblood his body harbors, his chest is heaving (oh, he doesn’t have on armor, he doesn’t feel the weight of metal on his back and on his arms and—his—

Shiro is hunched over his arm, nails digging into the ground so harshly that he could force them from his fingers, as Shiro’s sight is drawn to the arm that feels so real, so _alive_.

It feels like—it feels like—

Whispers inside his head that dig fingers into his mind and pull him into its direction with words (not words, no sounds, no real whispers) that tell Shiro about survival, about doing something, about the great need that festers inside the cage of his ribs.

It can’t—it can’t really—

 

 

\--

 

 

Instead of the non-presence of his arm, the phantom weight of it, the searing pain that has rendered his mind almost delirious, is no longer there. What is there, however, is something out of an inventor’s dreamscape.

It’s Shiro’s arm, now completely metal, hooked onto his flesh as through it were created to be there, as if Shiro was born into this world with it. It’s sleek, it’s silver, the joint where bones would meet under the flesh is pristine and expertly crafted, and the gears moving effortlessly as though this truly were a hand. There’re images on it, drawings of a sort, and they’re so intricately crafted together and, in a pattern, that Shiro has never seen before, much less even have the mental state to try to decipher them. They wind all along the surface, designed with obvious expert care.

 

 

\--

 

 

There are two things that Shiro can process through a delirium that has continued to stay in his mind.

It’s his arm (it really is his arm) and it acts like a human’s arm does: it functions like Shiro’s arm does. It moves, the fingers are twitching like Shiro’s other hand is, shaking and trembling. Its fingers are digging the ground, the tiles ( _tiles,_  what outside area has _tiles_ ) cracked underneath the fingers. Shiro could admire what a lovely and expertly-crafted piece of machinery this is in another setting, congratulate the creator’s efforts but he can’t, not when it’s attached to him. He can’t fully process how it’s moving, how a piece of machinery is moving without human intervention, knowing the world isn’t advanced enough to do this.

And then there’s the second thing.

There’s… something that’s flowing from the arm into Shiro’s body.

Shiro can feel it, there’s something that this arm is doing to him that Shiro doesn’t know and can’t figure out. It’s this feeling, this—this kind of energy that’s seeping from the metal and traveling up through this machinery into his body. It’s pushing into his veins, saturating his flesh, and Shiro can feel all of it coursing through him, settling into his bones to create a home there. What gets the dark-haired man is that he can feel it responding to him, he can feel this kind of life in it, an entity that has begun to infiltrate his body. It actually scares Shiro.

The feeling of it, this… feeling that touches up against his soul, his essence, and viscerally reacts to his every movement.

(Perhaps the low background noise within his mind is what puts him on edge with this actual feeling of it shifting, _moving_.)

Shiro’s sweating, his lungs are heaving, his mouth is open, eyes widened as Shiro raises the arm from the ground, the hand responding, turning to allow Shiro to look the palm as he brings it off the ground. His steel-colored eyes survey it, turning it over, and not really listening to how there could be the sound of gears moving and shifting, bolts and nuts adapting to the turning of the appendage as Shiro is shaken by how much its behaving like it was his own mortal flesh.

It’s moving through him, this feeling, responding to him and Shiro wonders momentarily if he has been cursed, if there is a wretched parasite that has infiltrated his blood, before everything collapses too harshly onto his mind, cracking his vision before all color fades from his vision and blackness begins to cover his sight.

It’s slick, the feeling inside him, this slow encroachment of something that lies inside him now. It has to be the Church, it has to be the Galra that has done something to him.

Shiro doesn’t know where he’s at but he’s not looking at the inside of a ward—or was he in a cell—was he in that place again—

( _Flesh rips, blood sliding along his fingers, there’s the audible snap of bones and white light that's tinted with sky that erupts from his fingers that never fails to scare Shiro so much. He’s actually afraid of what comes out of his fingers as he helplessly watches another graphic image of his hands running through another being. Limbs scrabbling as Shiro watches this—this thing falls from hands to the ground in a heap of an apathetic mass of a tattered, heaving flesh._

_The very same beast that robbed him of his real arm that lies on the ground, snarling, gurgling on its own blood, but those unseeing, yellowed eyes are locked onto Shiro, with snapped claws reaching out toward him. A blind need to satiate its desire for the Shiro’s bones. The fur clumped with blood stands sleek against the light, highlighting just how starved this beast is._

_Shiro steps back, and takes another, and another—_

_It still snarls, tongue lolling from its mouth, panting, as reaches out toward him. Its eyes are locked onto him, and Shiro breathes heavily, unable to bring himself to do anything because—_

_He can’t do it, he can’t._

_This beast has no care, it needs to eat, it has a desire for blood that drives it toward Shiro._

_“It would do you well to finish it off,” and that voice comes to smoothly against the scarred man’s ear that it startles Shiro into turning around—_

_Yellowed eyes are on him, there’s teeth and spit and diseased breath that barrel toward him and Shiro is frozen, he can’t react fast enough as growls become louder and louder and rugged claws push out of the darkened corner of the room right toward Shiro. There’s too much darkness around him, too little light, and Shiro’s entire body is on edge but it just won’t move, it just won’t let him—_

_“Beasts love the scent of the pungent blood no matter what it belongs to.”_ )

—that Shiro would rather be dead than to go back to. He can’t let that happen again, he can’t let them get to him again, he can’t face those scalpels and horrid beasts and the eyes of collapsed men with nothing but their rotted teeth and blind lust for violence.

And it’s all because of his arm, the very thing Shiro has decided, in his non-rational mind, that it has to be gone, it has to be removed, and like many times before him, has pushed his torn nails into to tear off. He wants it off, he needs it off, he can’t stand having this connected to his arm. It takes a moment, but oh, he is yelling, he’s screaming, he’s got his knees on the ground where some small, unknown objects bite into his knees as Shiro is desperate to get this thing removed from his arm.

Get it off, get it off, _get it off_ —

This is where it becomes familiar and linear, a constantly repeated process: the arm resists, and this is the part that continues to scare Shiro as he feels resistance, he feels an actual force against him that screams against him and a rush of white noise that shreds into his mind and sweeps him into this state that the battered ex-night has no idea that happens outside of it.

He should know his lesson by now, with this arm, this piece of machinery that has been gifted to him so elegantly that won’t leave his body.

Before the noise consumes him, there are feet at the side with a soft click of heels, and, “oh, you’re awake,” before there’s nothing.

 

 

\--

 

 

There’s something to be said about a body’s thresholds, about its ability to react under stress. The fledgling knowledge of medicine—

( _Whisperings of unnatural findings and the temptation of God’s retribution, the act of it all being forbidden and its discovery is nothing but a wretched plague upon the purity of the mind._

 _Such a manner of thought is nothing but witchcraft._ )

—has discovered that there is much to be learned about how the body reacts to stress, to something traumatic, and how the mind can experience and undergo the compartmentalization of such an experience.

It’s one Shiro is discovering.

There’s a ceiling, dark, a reddish-brown color that is muted with the darkness of the room. There’s the stale scent of something sterile, the iron of old blood that wraps around the room with no escape.

Shiro isn’t cognizant of what’s going on, what’s happening, his mind a delayed reaction that can’t quite figure out how to understand what has happened. His vision is blurry, it fades in and out, as glazed eyes look around the room, not truly realizing what is happening.

There’s a stand next to him, two glossy, red bottles that are hooked to the top in what appears to be a metal rod with a basket at the top that holds those two bottles. The metal of it gleams with dull light, silver and almost brand new in its quality (it must have been recently crafted) as there’s two clear tubes that travel from the bottles. The former knight stares at them with no recognition of what they are.

Shiro groans, his eyes unfocused that blankly looks at his surroundings without actually taking it in. His chest is heavy, his arms are weak, his entire body is so submerged under this film of water that everything is muted. Underneath all of it, there’s an itch under Shiro’s skin, there’s something that’s pressing against the back of his mind that’s too languid to process—

Shiro’s scrambling suddenly, falling onto the ground as a gasp forces his lungs open as his body flails. There’s a crash of something below his ears, something metal that hits the ground, a glass of something shattering as Shiro scrambles to upright himself and his mind trying to catch up.

The room is darkened, there’s a strong smell of something bitter, there’s something in his hands and—

Oh god, his hand—his _hand_ —

Frantic eyes fall onto that—that monstrosity that has so much more weight than what it appears, a feeling that shouldn’t exist, and on top of that, a feeling that soaks through the man’s entire being like it was meant to do this.

Nowhere on this earth should this feeling exist.

With his waking conscious, everything collapses onto his head; a flash of images, vivid in their painting, but yet at the same time, having no detail that makes it significant to identify. There are colors, there’s muted sounds, smells of death and festered things that create a combination that the ex-knight could think is happening at this very moment. He’s scrambling back, and Shiro doesn’t know what his back is hitting or if it’s hitting anything and this is some kind of vivid, waking dream that Shiro never escaped that place. He’s still somewhere under the thumb of the Executioners, that radical group belonging to the Church of the Galra that won’t stop at anything to gain whatever kind of forbidden knowledge they cast out other people for practicing.

The knight doesn’t realize it, with his palm slick from the grime of the floor, the dulled pain at the back of his mind from wounds of old, is his breath coming in short, his lungs straining to bring in air to his demanding body as he doesn’t recognize his surroundings.

The only thing he recognizes is the arm, the very same one that feels so alive like some deity that has seen Shiro as a kind of vessel for its own succession for life, and Shiro is still too afraid of it to trust it.

The very same arm the Church—no, the Galra, have grafted to his body. An arm that has sowed its roots into his soul, wound so tightly into his being that Shiro fears that it’s irreparable and something else waiting under his skin to steal his life. He doesn’t know what to do and he has this sudden need to be rid of this arm. His hand raises, fingers ready to lose another set of nails in an effort to get this arm off.

“Oh, no, I certainly can’t have you do this within the clinic.”

Shiro’s body snaps to attention, his senses sharpening to become aware of what’s around him as his dilemma had allowed something to gain access to him without his permission and vetting. His hands scramble back, a sharp sting pushing against his palm and up his arm but Shiro doesn’t pay attention to what has happened as his body pushes back, his back connecting with something else. The mess he made earlier when falling from what he was laid out on is pushed around as he moves back.

Shiro’s heart thuds, slamming against the inside of his ribs as his ears white out and focus centers on whatever the voice came from. Shiro hazards a glance at his arm because maybe, just maybe, it was something from that. The feeling of _something else_ that’s latched onto him in this unsettling way that he can’t bring himself to be distracted completely from.

Shiro sees the figure of a shape with a feminine curve to it. Heels click against the floor (it’s wooden, Shiro’s mind unhelpfully supplies), the taps of them loud and intrusive against the loud pants of Shiro’s lungs. Shiro watches, strung tight, his body tense, his body ready and poised as his forgotten sense of self-preservation becomes the forefront of his mind.

This figure, with an accent he’s not familiar with, walks through the dim, poorly-lit room toward him. They meander around a table (the same bottles he saw earlier, the same stand, but there’s a bucket from what Shiro can see, glinting in the low lighting, dirtied with something, the details blurry without proper lighting) and back onto a path toward Shiro.

Shiro’s eyes are wide, centered on this person, as they slow their stride. The movement has Shiro tensing even more as they raise their hands and, “I mean you no harm, sir, but only good intentions,” and Shiro sees them stop in front of him, a good distance away. He tracks the movement of their body language, watching as they turn their head to whatever Shiro had broken in his earlier descent into panic, and Shiro’s arm (is it really an arm, is it something more?) twitches and that moment, that small reaction is enough to catch the ex-knights attention at how _human_ it’s behaving, reacting to him in a manner that would befit a regular flesh and blood appendage.

The rustle of the person in front of the man catches his attention (and isn’t that unbecoming of a knight to let himself become distracted by other things that don’t lie within his immediate danger) brings his gaze back to them. They shift, obviously aware of Shiro’s apprehension, and takes a breath before, “my name is Shay, and this is my clinic.”

It takes a moment for it to register before Shiro understands where he is now.

“I found you at the edge of the Forbidden Woods,” and that name doesn’t register with Shiro, he doesn’t know where that is, “and you were barely alive. I brought you here and treated your wounds as best as I could.”

Shiro takes a chance to look at his body and oh, he’s just realizing that he is indeed patched up. The intricate workings of bandages wrap around large portions of his body. Some are old based on the creased look of them and color, some newer, and Shiro wonders briefly just how long he’s been out, how much time has he lost.

That’s a thought that makes a bitter taste at the back of his tongue.

“I found you as I was searching for more herbs to create new medicines for some ailments I have been researching. I couldn’t leave you there.”

Shiro allows himself to look away from the woman, his body not relaxing but not as quite alert. The room I more in focus now, the walls an off white from what he can gather from the poor lighting, the walls lined with shelves hat have many glass bottles, books scattered in the open spaces on the shelves. The bottles are deep colors, some fades, with some sitting on dirty, old pieces of cloth. There’s tables set up, older pieces of metals, some with obvious signs of much use.

“You were quite heavy as I brought you back. I was not sure if you were going to make it. Thank goodness that you did.”

Shiro’s body is relaxing against what he knows he shouldn’t, but his body still feels so drained, so worn down and weary that Shiro can feel the loss settling in deeply to his bones.

“I had to perform many blood ministrations on you,” and this catches the bandaged man’s attention, head turning back toward the healer, “and you nearly depleted my supply of medicine, but you have made it.”

Shiro tries to say something, his tongue unable to form the words he wants to say, his mind unable to correctly figure out how to voice his thoughts. He tries again, swallowing, his throat dry and stale. He tries but nothing comes out, his throat unwilling to birth the thoughts that are still vaguely formed.

It takes a moment before, “I—” and he has to breathe, “—how long was I…” and oh, that’s his voice, scratchy and torn and diffuse at the edges, “… out for?”

His causes Shay to bring her hands (Shiro tenses up, eyes now zeroed in on her hands, his body ready for something, anything—) in front of her, hands coming together in a manner of concern, the robes of her sleeves settling over them and hiding most of it from view.

“I know not of how long you were there in those woods, but I know that I have had you in my care for one month.”

This causes a kind of deflation in Shiro that he wasn’t ready for. Shiro isn’t sure what he was expecting, he wasn’t sure if he was expecting anything, but that answer—that answer…

He’s lost so much time, not just that month alone.

Shiro slumps forward, inhaling quickly, his mouth slack as he tries to process this. His gaze flits to his hand, his flesh hand (now isn’t that something Shiro doesn’t know if he’ll be used to, if he’ll ever be used to it) that has ruffled bandages neatly wrapped around his hand—they’re fresh, the color white and unstained with crimson, somewhat creased from his little movement, and Shiro’s mo=ind wants to focus on this as if it’s a protection from what he has to truly think about.

“Wh—” and the ex-knight has to breathe again, eyes closing as he finally gets out, “why haven’t I been awake for any of it?”

Shay sighs, shifting (Shiro tenses again, unable to help himself), and softly does she allow her explanation with, “I could see you were in terrible pain, and I am not fond of patients under my care to needlessly suffer. I used a lot of sedatives to keep you incapacitated for a long time while I performed what I could. I was afraid that you had the scourge—” this catches Shiro’s attention, “—and that it could expose my patients to it, but you didn’t show any signs of it, and I was so relieved.”

Shay takes a breath, continuing softly, “there has been more beasts that have shown up in the city, more than what the hunter’s can bear,” and that’s another thing Shiro doesn’t quite understand, “and it has resulted in many new patients coming to my clinic. I am not able to save them all, and many are falling into becoming a beast. I just wish that I could save them all, but my patients are too important to let those people who fall around them. It truly is a dire situation that I cannot put my patients into.”

Shiro breathes, trying to calm himself, finding himself trying to recall his moments as a dignified knight (dead, dead, dead) that was the central inspiration for the calm of the entire organization, the pinnacle of what everyone had tried to strive for, the shining example of what knighthood should be.

What a sad thing he is now.

Shiro's teeth grind against each other as he tries desperately to calm himself, to not let himself fall apart at the mere notion of what has happened to him in… in…

Shiro doesn’t actually know what’s really happened for so long. He can sense the gaps that are within his memory, the images broken and torn to a point that Shiro can’t discern many of them or what their entire purpose could be. However, Shiro gets this near overwhelming amount of dread, this near primal fear that coats it so thickly than the heaviest of perfumes. There are these gaps, these areas of black that Shiro can’t understand, but there are these fleeting images that Shiro can see, but he can barely understand what they’re supposed to be beyond the visceral reaction his mind has to them.

Instead, Shiro raises his hand, his eyes closing, gritting his teeth and his face comes to rest into it (not with his metal hand, not that hand, never that hand) as he tries to comprehend what’s happening to him. Here, on this dirty clinic floor, is Shiro the image of a weakened, cracked thing, where no armor can protect the ripped open wounds and broken pride that have the worst parts sewn into Shiro’s beings, his will patched with weakened pieces that are sure to break and be unable to help him.

Oh, how he’s fallen from his graceful knighthood.

Shay shifts, the sound of her clothing rustling within the silenced air between them that it doesn’t bother Shiro from his thoughts. However, Shay, with a hesitant voice, asks him, “I have been meaning to ask you about that arm of yours,” and this—this isn’t—this isn’t something that Shiro wants to think about, not with how it’s apart of his being and its entire presence something that bothers Shiro on such a level that he can’t explain it.

“It’s a fine example of engineering, and I wanted to clean it for you while you recovered, but I did not touch it in concern that you may not have wanted me to remove it.”

There’s a growing noise within Shiro’s head the more he thinks about this arm, the more Shay talks about it in a way that he can’t ignore how this arm is reacting to him which should be _preposterous_ —

“Did you happen to obtain that arm from dearest Pidge? I wonder if it’s the latest invention her family has come out with. It certainly has the workings of the Holts. I’m always so curious about what inventions she comes up with in that little shop.”

That’s something—that name, something about it perks Shiro to look at her, trying to understand kind of information that Shay has given him.

Shiro needs answers, he needs some kind of information, he needs to know just what exactly has been grafted to his body. His eyes flicker down to the arm, tracing over the intricate drawings on it, following the curves and sharp angles of the arm, unable to recognize what these marks are supposed to me or do. They’re nothing what Shiro has seen, none of them ring anything familiar and Shiro has no idea what he’s supposed to know in order to recognize them. There’s nothing in the Vileblood history that he knows of that even vaguely resembles what he’s looking at, and none of the lessons he’s received in his career as a knight of Cainhurst rings any true recognition in what he’s supposed to look at.

It’s obvious these are of a foreign origin, one that Shiro isn’t familiar with no matter how much knowledge was contained within Cainhurst’s vast library, and its purpose and meaning escapes the ex-knight. The harder Shiro tries to search his memory, the more he falls through the holes that are spread out through his mind, unable to grasp any true meaning that feels significant in his mind. Shiro eventually becomes frustrated, unhappy with how much he can’t recall from his own memory, and it truly sets him on edge with how much of his own memory seems absent from him.

There are vague images that press against the back of his eyelids, frayed and loose and weak in their presentation, creating a non-linear view of events that are out of order and hold no true meaning of something meant to be greater. The ex-knight pushes harder, trying to find something, trying to stop himself from falling through the holes that litter it, trying to grasp at anything he can find but he comes up disappointed with more questions about why he can’t recall very much.

While trying to delve into his mind, trying to sort through his lack of memories, trying to understand what happened to him, and his own disappointment with how much he’s missing, Shay had begun to move forward, heels clicking softly on the floor. Shiro is wrenched from his mind to Shay, his body coiling and tensed with the sudden movement, his world centering on the healer and what she could possibly be doing.

( _It doesn’t look like very much as it writhes, torn hands that scrabble against the floor, eyes of a deadened sky that only focus on one thing, the saliva that pours from its mouth. It’s intelligible, it’s beyond any kind of speech, and it cannot think beyond what is in front of it._

_Shiro knows it can’t do anything, he knows it’s not capable of touching him. It writhes and twitches as it pulls itself toward Shiro, drawn toward the visceral that coats his hands, the blood that drips from his fingers, its entire existence beckoning it as though the beast is powerless to stop itself from the temptation of this honey it desires more than its own life._

_Shiro only stands in place with no discernible thoughts that give him any kind of motivation to move, unable to take his widened ash eyes from the beast. Broke claws on its hands reach toward him, the limbs trembling, smearing its own blood along the floor. It wants to sink its teeth into Shiro’s being, it wants to feast on his blood, it wants to do so much harm to Shiro’s being and celebrate it with a carnage fitting for its desires and all Shiro does is just…_

_Watch it._

_He’s still unsettled by how humanoid it is._ )

Shay seems to understand how on edge he is, coming to a stop a few feet from him before she folds her knees to become eye level with the scarred man. Her face reveals a gentled expression that is patient as it is kind, and a soft smile etches into the corners of her mouth as she folds her arms over her knees, making her stature smaller, shaping into something that is unassuming and non-imposing. Shiro has an unsettled feeling that she’s doing it for him, that her only reason is to make sure that Shiro doesn’t separate anymore at his seems.

“May I ask your name?”

Shiro holds his tongue for a moment, unsure for a moment, before he relents with, “Shiro. My name is Shiro,” that shapes into a roughened whisper, his voice still scratchy with disuse.

“Shiro,” and Shay still remains patient, “I do not know where you came from, I do not know where you have been,” and there is a resonance of bitterness that sinks into his soul and begins to fester at such a fastidious rate, “but I want you to know that you’re always welcome in this clinic. Whatever ails your body, what sickness you may face, I want you to know that you have a place in my clinic.”

That isn’t what the ex-knight was expecting, already assuming that his stay was limited now that his condition no longer required a doctor and he would be forced to find shelter in this foreign land that has no care to learn his name to know who it’s going to claim. It’s certainly a better prospect than what Shiro thought he was going to face, and in that moment, a warmth settles just behind his ribs.

It’s been so long since a stranger has handled him with kindness.

It’s a bitter residue at the back of his tongue.

Shiro chances a look around again, his eyes not taking in very much as his mind is still trying to piece itself back together, and allows himself to ask, “where—where is your clinic?”

Shay still has that kindness in her voice and Shiro can’t express enough about how foreign this softness is to him, against the grated skin of his body, and how welcome it is, “Yharnam. It is a city that has its charms, but,” and Shay hesitate, looking away and sighing before she looks at Shiro again, “this city has very little welcome for outsiders. It is not the fault of the townspeople, but they are wary of things they do not understand.”

Shiro knew her kindness wasn’t going last to soothe him forever.

Shay quickly moves to explain, “Yharnam has faced many hardships, many of which others have looked down on the town for. It has created a mistrust for outsiders, but please, Shiro, do not allow this to poison your view of them. They are good people, they’re just wary and closed off to things that may do them harm.”

Shiro isn’t sure if he likes that he can sympathize with that view.

Shay seems to sense his apprehension, and as the nature of a healer, she moves quick to soothe over any apprehension, “I would advise you to visit the Holts.”

This is something the ex-knight grasps onto, his need for answers rearing and surpassing whatever has been happening as this is going to finally smooth over his own fear about what’s been happening to him.

“The Holts?”

Shay smiles before, “yes, the Holts. They are famed inventors that live within the city. They create machines, very many machines and are very inquisitive people. Why, just yesterday, I had received a new clock from them. It is fascinating to know that this small creation is helping people in many ways.”

Shiro’s metal (false) fingers twitch, and once again, Shiro is so unsettled by how this mimics a real arm, like his own flesh was turned into metal itself. The ex-knight isn’t sure that he’ll ever get used to it.

“You should go there if you wish to understand the ways of machinery. The littlest one, who is named Pidge, knows much about machines and is always looking to understand them. If anyone knows anything about them, she is the best one to see.”

The slate-eyed man rolls the information along his tongue, tastes the words and answers they brings him and what it does to him. Shay allows herself to raise back to her full height, moving in a slow, meticulous fashion that tells Shiro she is still being careful around him, and just for a moment, he wants to lash out about it.

There’s still so much frustration in his soul, the anger about what has befallen him in his past that continues to steal his strength and will of the present, continuing to weigh heavy on his chest, so much more than what his armor could ever be, more than any sword of the heaviest materials, and Shiro can’t help but feel so helpless because of it. He’s never felt his own worth so weightless in its loss of purpose, aimless and unable to understand what’s happening around him.

How a disgrace he is to his late queen.

A rational part of Shiro’s mind informs him that he needs to move, he needs to seek out answers and to not continue to sully his hands in more weakness than what he needs to bare, but it’s another part of him that only can think about how much he’s lost, how much was taken from him, and the vacant space inside his chest that knows it won’t be satisfied with these mere answers and positions he has to undertake in order to gain what was lost to him.

Shiro doesn’t know just how successful this is going to be, but he’s going to try.

 

 

\--

 

 

It takes a while for Shiro to find the strength to leave his position on the floor, long after Shay had departed his presence. It’s with the shake of his legs, the tremble of his hands, the overwhelming need to grasp at something to use it to stand on his own that creates such shame that burns through his body. It’s a far cry from how Shiro used to be, the utter strength his stance would give, the absolute respect it commanded from his peers and fellow knights.

How revered he used to be only to become an image of this poor, sad thing.

Shay gives him a map of the city, taking the time to mark the Holts’ location and describing what he should see should he not be able to understand where he is. However, the healer insists that Shiro stay at her clinic for a day and allow himself to recover. It’s in a moment of wounded pride that Shiro tries to deny it, he tries to convince himself—whether it was for Shay or for himself—that he has had enough rest, he was in a catatonic state in her clinic for a month, he’s had enough rest. As Shiro had said that, his knees had collapsed from under him, making a shocked sound as his weight brings him to the ground faster than any sword he has dropped. Shay had been close to catch him but she doesn’t catch the amount of his pride that had continue to fall.

Begrudgingly, Shiro accepts it, unable to move a short distance before he can feel the weakness of his muscles making itself known.

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s the morning after Shiro has woken in Shay’s clinic and the man is eager to get out of the clinic. It’s nothing against Shay’s abilities and it’s not meant to denigrate her kindness to him, but he has to leave, he has to find answers—he needs those answers.

Shiro steps into the warm air of the city, the sun just over the horizon that splays soft rays of warm colors that brush against the city. Instead of moving forward, trying to set off, Shiro stands in place, his eyes staring at the sun rising in the sky. His breathing is deeper, his lungs slowing, and without noticing, Shiro finds himself easing into something he hasn’t felt so long.

He feels content in such a way that he hasn’t felt for so long.

It’s the delicate press of fresh, fledgling sunlight that warms his body in ways that Shiro hasn’t felt for so long, the warmth welcome on his skin. The gold glow of the sun is enough to pool this kind of vulnerable emotion into his stomach that Shiro doesn’t think he can find the effort within him to ward it off.

It’s been so long since he has seen a sunrise that the sight of it quells this deep longing within his soul.

Shiro finds himself content to stand here and watch the sunlight as it highlights the outlines of buildings, as sunlight becomes minced through the leaves of surrounding tees, the sight of it becoming a content image within Shiro’s mind, a welcome feeling that his mind is desperate to replace the existing roil of darker sounds that is now a fixture within his head. It’s a shame that Shiro can’t spend his days within this moment, that he can’t allow the warmth of the sun to bask his body with this softened euphoria that he desperately wishes could be given to him at every moment to soothe his body.

With regret, Shiro moves from his spot, forcing the world to come back together and give him a vision that he’s reluctant to accept, and begins to move forward. He walks through the front yard of the clinic, letting himself take in the area. It’s quiet, there isn’t much to hear as far as a bustling city would be concerned but it’s enough for Shiro, welcoming of the quiet pace that has eluded him for so long.

Shiro makes his way through a large gate, taking a moment to stop and running a hand along the metal of it. It’s strange, Shiro thinks, as he runs his hand along the cool metal that’s warming from the sunlight, looking at the smaller etchings of the gate’s details along the metal, how much he used to find disdain with the silence, with the way his life would become so lenient when his duties weren’t necessary. How he used to loathe being in one place, finding himself taking so many strolls through Cainhurt’s courtyards to think how he should spend his time when he wasn’t needed to attend to any duties, and his sheer boredom when everything slowed down.

Now it’s something that is nearly reverent to him.

Shiro draws his hand further down the metal, staring at his hand as it slides down the gate’s bars before his hand stops. The ex-knight only stands there, stall gazing at the gate that his hand is settled upon before he sighs before withdrawing his hand. It hovers for a moment, his fingers loosely curling and folding at the elbow to come rest before his chest. Shiro can’t describe it, this feeling in his chest at the sheer quiet around him, the light sounds of a city with life around him. It’s so little, yet so much at the same time, a wonder that Shiro can find himself grateful for this—this quality that used to be so dreary is now something his senses are coveting.

The scarred man knows not of how long he had lost track of time, how much time he had lost, what had become of his life during those blackened memories that his mind cannot decipher the amount of time they harbor, but his body’s reaction to this moment of stagnant quiet is enough to settle a hollowed sensation at the bottom of his stomach with how the slow dawning of this realization about how much time he truly may have lost. It’s a disappointing taste in his mouth, almost rolling the taste of ash between his teeth.

Stepping beyond the gates, Shiro is greeted with the sight of the town, the buildings tall and innocuous in their presence. The architecture isn’t what Shiro is used to—grand designs of stone and constant reminders of the old kings and solid, impenetrable walls of stone and lavish red carpets and polished mahogany floors that are now traded for tall, metal and cement-infused structures and roads of paved rock and worn stone and rusting metal railings. Shiro is used to walking among royalty, among the finest soldiers and now, Shiro is left to be among common citizens of a town that will find no reason to trust him.

Shiro continues to stroll, allowing his feet to take him through the city. He finds the city fascinating in a way that fills the emptiness within his chest, with the bustle of people that walk around him. The city has so much life, with the liveliness of people ( _violent displays of red along the walls_ ) that walk around him, the old, worn colors of brick buildings ( _shatters of stone and the cracks of pillars_ ) that are of an age Shiro can’t decipher, the smells of iron and dust and heat ( _the putrid stench of death and hot metal spilled along the floor and sprayed against the walls_ ) that Shiro can’t help but appreciate.

Sure, it’s less than what he’s used, much less, but there’s an enjoyment that Shiro can’t help but find himself feeling.

Shiro finds peace in these little things.

Not even the looks he receives from some of the people around him, obvious in their study of him, can hamper the feeling.

Shiro is crossing a large bridge when something catches his attention. It’s brief, it’s fleeting, but Shiro can’t shake the instinct to stop and know what it is. He looks down at the map in his hands, ash eyes looking at how much distance he has left to travel and also flitting up in the direction of this alleyway. There’s the sound of glass rolling, and the ex-knight is sure that it’s a bottle rolling as well as hearing the scrape of something metal against the ground. Shiro stares down the alleyway, his hand (false, false, false) raising to push a stray lock of hair out of his face—no, not this hand, never this hand, and he hesitates to allow it to do anything, still so unsure of it.

(He still feels it, this arm, this thing that continues to create this disturbed feeling of something that continues to unerve Shiro.

It’s the feeling of something that comes from the arm, something that writhes in a sense of being alive that he hates to think about.)

There’s another sound, another scrape of something, and there’s glass shattering. Shiro knows he should leave, this isn’t any of his concern—he shouldn’t be here; he should go, he should go back to seeking out answers again but there’s that need to check out what this is. Call it olden instincts of his previous knighthood that takes hold of his legs and pushes him to seek out answers. It’s the inquisitive nature that his knighthood had created in order to be ready for any mere situation that would be pushed upon his person. It’s a quality his queen has praised of him, had believed his instincts to know what was going on, wanting to know what to be careful of—there are many qualities his queen praised him of, and that remnant of a memory is what encourages him to continue

( _Is it not your need to cling to events past to feel like you matter anymore?_ )

With apprehension, and a complete awareness of his own lack of weapon and polished armor, Shiro moves forward. The alleyway comes closer, the details of strewn items on the ground become visible, the worn image of stone stands out, faded and chipped, large wooden crates that are stacked chaotically that scale the walls—there—right there, moving further back in the alleyway. Shiro readies himself, his throat dry, his fingers curling and lungs compressing faster that forces shallower breaths in quick successions that has Shiro poised for an action he doesn’t know will be needed.

Shiro steps forward—he stumbles, having missed a glass bottle that became trapped under his foot, rolling away from under his foot, scrapping along the ground in a too loud escape that rings along the walls of the alley. It’s jarring in its movement, the sound unwelcome, and Shiro looks up from his foot in time to see dim, yellowed eyes moving toward him that has Shiro scrambling back, his mind collapsing on itself in such familiarity of emotion that ascends his spine so fast it leaves him reeling.

There’s yellowed eyes that come toward him and dim lighting in the alley shine against sharpened teeth that are open and panting and dripping a kind of visceral that stains them.

Shiro recognizes it.

He recognizes it well.

It’s the same beast where his flesh rots within its torn belly somewhere in events passed.

There’s a litany of denial that has become normalized so quickly within the scarred man’s mind, works that are spilling with ink over the canvas that leaves no room for a rational work of writing as everything becomes chaos.

“You,” he breathes, the dawning of horror that collapses his mind into panic and the roil of horses with armor colliding and swords that reverberate with every clash and the cacophony of screams and anguish and—and—

An arm outstretches toward him, claws with grime that aim for his vulnerability, intent to take advantage of it, and Shiro can barely make himself move from the nearly paralyzing emotion that hardens his muscles into statutes to be struck down. Air rushes toward the amnesiac man’s face that brings a putrid stench of festering blood and for a moment, just a moment, is Shiro seeing himself in the middle of trees and dirt and his knees against disturbed soil as he stares in shocked horror as there are jaws closing around his arms and gazing upon the split of skin and flesh and bone—

Shiro moves back as the roar of a starved beast is colliding into his ears, his eyes gazing upon dark, mangy fur of this beast that continues to come toward Shiro. He jumps to the side as a clawed paw comes down toward him, claws poised to burrow into the scarred flesh of his body. It’s quick, fast, intent and Shiro moves. There’s still so much that is strung around the alley that makes it hard to move—Shiro nearly becomes cornered by a wooden crate behind him as he darts to the side. The sound of splintering wood is loud in the alley, pieces flying, a mess in the growing debris in the alley.

Shiro needs to think, he needs to get out, and the ex-knight knows he’s outmatched and that he doesn’t have much of a chance to kill this creature. The beast, this werewolf-like creature that’s now stalking toward him, eyes fixated on Shiro as its mouth lolls open, saliva running down its jaw in a clear tell that it’s hungry, taking slow movements toward him. It’s clear this beast is used to hunting, knowing when it should strike, and Shiro can’t—he won’t be this thing’s next meal.

Shiro glances around him, needing to find a weapon or something that he can make do with. He needs something large, he needs something that can keep this beast at a distance but Shiro knows that if based on how this beast is intent on devouring his flesh, it won’t matter what he brandishes against the beast. Beside him lies a split box of wood, one of the pieces lengthy and it’s what Shiro needs. The long-haired man steps back, eyes intent on the beast still moving, hand drifting back as the beast advances forward. He almost has it, he just needs a little mor—

The beast stops before shifting back, getting on its hind legs, straightening itself up and bringing itself up as a bear would. The beast dives forward, claws outstretched in front of it, trying to grab at Shiro. It’s an opportunity Shiro needs to get out from being backed into a corner. Shiro dives forward, moving under the beast as it pushes forward toward him. The stench of the beast nearly throws the ex-knight and he grimaces at the smell of it.

Shiro doesn’t have time to wince as split wood bites into his hands as he lands, rolling and moving back into a standing position as the beast crashes into barrels. Before Shiro can react, to gather himself, the beast takes the movement into stride as it turns, shifting on its legs with speed that should be impossible because of its size, but it pivots and throws out one of its arms, trying to swipe through the air and toward Shiro. Shiro drops, barely avoiding the claws, and diving to the side again as the beast staggers to the side with too much momentum.

Shiro scrambles back, grunting with the effort of trying to shake off the landing and bite of stone into his side, knees staggering a little. It shows that Shiro hasn’t been active and keeping up with training his body to be ready to combat any situation that every Cainhurst knight knew they were to be ready for. Shiro grunts, listing to the side as he scrambles back to put distance between the beast. The beast stops, head snapping around toward Shiro, those empty flaxen eyes immediately locking onto Shiro.

Shiro glances around, looking to see if it’s possible to escape and as much as he balks at the idea, at abandoning the area and allowing this beast to see his belly, but he knows he can’t fight against this beast. He has a flimsy piece of wood to defend himself, it’s jagged end short and not enough to pierce into this beast’s hide of which Shiro isn’t sure how thick it is. The beast rights itself before it lets out a gurgling snarl, spit barreling out of its mouth in an overzealous display of hunger and bloodlust. Its head droops and begins to stalk toward Shiro, unwilling to allow him the opportunity to escape.

Shiro looks at the span of its arms, the lengthy claws it has, the slow stalk—this is a beast of power, of quick reflexes, and it’s already proving to be a dangerous creature and Shiro doesn’t know how he could get away from it. It’s already shown it’s bigger than Shiro when it stands on its hind legs as a bear would. Sweat is collecting along his back, slicks his hairline, and it’s at this moment that the ex-knight has to do something, there’s no way he can—

The werewolf stops, back arching as it’s pulling itself back up to its hind legs in an attempt to launch itself at Shiro again. The man tenses, hand gripping onto the broken piece of wood, ready to move, ready to—

It happens faster than Shiro can realize to the point where he doesn’t comprehend what is happening.

There’s—feathers that appears beside him, sleek black and numerous that bellows behind them, that moves beyond him. There’s the sound of boots that echo as a blade—two of them, that shear against each other with an echo of sound that produces a show of brief sparks. Before Shiro can realize, it’s in front of him, quick in its placement as Shiro realizes that it’s moving.

Shiro sees a figure in front of him that wields blades, two of them that belongs to the mass of feathers—it’s a cape of feathers, Shiro belatedly realizes that doesn’t quite register as the figure crouches before pushing forward, toward the beast. This knocks something loose in Shiro’s mind that causes a deep protest to echo sharply through his mind. It’s obviously a person but Shiro can’t handle the idea of something or someone dying for him because he let his senses get the better of him.

Before Shiro can react, before he can step forward, the figure has pushed off their feet and charging forward, blades poised, as the beast launches forward, arms outstretched, claws spread and pointed toward the feathered person, intent to make this person—who is smaller than Shiro, he realizes—its hearty meal.

The figure stops themself slamming a foot down as they crouch before thrusting a blade forward, plunging it into the beast unprotected stomach and slashing it through its skin, bringing the other blade forward in a vertical slash from the bottom of its chest to under its jaw. The beast staggers back, arms flailing as blood sprays, gurgling and snarling through its pain. The beast stumbles back, arms coming up as it makes a whine before it seems to reorient itself, and despite the injury, it’s trying to ready itself for an attack.

( _A pant of breath that comes hot and heavy through the bitter air that’s oppressed with a winter chill, escaping through the gaps of sharpened teeth with no other purpose than to sink into the delicate and susceptible pieces of an innocent being with such harmfully fatal intentions._

_Scarlet pools and drips that taps against the ground below, matted grass and displaced dirt that becomes slick with it as it flows freely but languidly._

_It’s yet another of these beasts the Galra is so fond of putting in his way that is on the verge of death, desperate hunger that makes it so persistent and willing to undertake even the most brutal of tasks to satisfy what it wants._

_“What is it about desperation that can make anything abandon its own morals, it’s instincts, to be rid of them?” is cool chill against Shiro back, one that calcifies his spine into the stiffest of statues. He doesn’t hear that voice often, it’s not a habit the owner seems to make to show up, but when it does, he knows that it can’t be good. It’s never good._ )

The figure readies themself as the beast prepares itself to charge forward, fingers clenching around the handle of their blades before they dash forward, the flow of their cape feathers lashing out behind them—they’re quick, faster than what Shiro would think. The beast pulls forward with outstretched arms, a guttural snarl leaving its throat as it tries to bear down on its target. The figure ducks the offending appendages and thrusts one blade forward, making a horizontal strike toward its stomach that has become unguarded in the beast’s attempts to attack. Blood follows the blade as it makes its path through the dirtied fur and becomes a mess along the person’s face—Shiro hasn’t had a chance to look at who his to be savior is.

The beast stumbles in a chaotic succession of flailing limbs, obviously not prepared for the attack but the figure doesn’t relent, doing a quick succession of strikes into the beast’s stomach as the beast roars again, unable to recover from the stagger of these blades and the speed of their attacks. Instead of relenting, the figure rushes forward, getting their knees underneath them, arms placed at their sides and launches upward, bringing their blades with them as they thrust both of them at the same time. They pierce the underside of the beast’s jaw, coming out at the top of the beast’s head.

The beast’s arms flail as its life pours from its fatal wound as the dull glow in its eyes fades out, slumping backwards, the blades noisily sliding out of its skull, the wet slice of flesh echoing loudly as the beast falls back and onto the ground.

Shiro is left standing there, plank of wood still clutched in his hand, mind whited out with nothing as the figure brings down the blades that lick away the blood of the slain beast, cape of feathers swishing with the movement. The figure turns and—oh, they have a mas on, one that he’s never seen before. It’s of a wooden—he thinks—origin, elongated and shaped into a beak, and Shiro has the vague image of a bird but he doesn’t know what to make of it.

The most standout feature is the cap of feathers. There’s so many of them, loose and arranged in a controlled chaotic display that demands his attention. They’re coated in blood splatters, darkening and clumping many of the feathers together yet they somehow retain the quality of free flow that Shiro doesn’t know how when there’s the added weight of blood.

Shiro swallows, looking down at the wooden plank in his hand as he clenches his fingers briefly before he lets it fall from his grip, the sound loud and intrusive within the quiet space of the alley. Shiro’s eyes are drawn to the corpse of the large beast, looking at the sprays of blood around it, smeared against the ground and grimaces as he tries to swallow down another memory that threatens to unhinge and shroud his mind again. There are vague, unformed feelings that try to rear up through his throat at the sight of it, a place that has been distanced within his mind trying to return to its former glory at the forefront.

Breathing in and trying to steel himself, Shiro expresses his gratitude with, “thanks for helping me.”

There’s silence from the other as Shiro is sure the other is staring at him. The other’s arms hang loosely at their side, gloved hands gripping those twin blades as blood makes a slow travel along their fingers and down the blade to collect at their feet. They don’t acknowledge the ex-knight’s words or give any sign that they made any sort of impact. Shiro shifts, well aware of his lack of armor and his dreary-like clothes that speak in massive volumes about how he doesn’t fit in with the scenery of the town. They’re not much, just common clothes, but Shiro feels as though he’s standing out so vividly that everyone must know he is not from around here.

Perhaps they can tell more than just his clothes, perhaps they can see something else his clothes can’t hide no matter how hard Shiro tries to assure himself that they can’t possibly know where he was before this.

Shiro’s attention is drawn when the person lifts their hands and Shiro tenses, his body preparing for anything that can happen. It’s his lost time that brings upon the question of what can he do, how can he defend himself when can’t even remember how to survive and escape from the perils of things he used to not fear?

_(“You are weak, but it is to be expected of a Vileblood. It’s that cursed blood that runs through you, rotting you from the inside that allows your body to exist in its filth, that makes you this way. But alas, do not fret for we will discover a way that our eyes have not to cleanse you of this weakness.”_

_Feet against the floor, soft and precise in their movement and halting near Shiro._

_“Yes, even the power of a Great One must be able to grant you salvation in the way that will save you soul from a wretched eternity.”_

_He can’t see, he can’t tell what’s supposed to be happening, but his body spasm so violently within its bindings, his back straight and petrified, as a hand lays across his face, covering the blindfold that has been wrapped too tight around his face._

_“Fear not for you are in luck, Vileblood, for we will allow God to bless you with the strength to be greater.”_ )

The silence is almost oppressive and Shiro can’t figure out how he’s supposed to proceed. If it were in another time of events passed in a too distant time, Shiro would offer all his grace and diplomacy to a fellow comrade with a firm shake of their hand that he would confidently give. This time, his hand is laced with weakness, with trembles, with all those little nasty pieces that have soaked into his blood to a point of no return.

The person stands there for a moment before they clasp their hands together and takes one of the blades and puts it into one hand before they jerk to the side with one hand and the blade—Shiro doesn’t quite see how it does it, but he watches as the blades combine into one.

Ah, so it’s a blade that can be separated into two.

The owner turns their face—mask back to him, seeming to gaze at him before they seem to decide to acknowledge him.

“What are you doing taking on a scourge beast with an inadequate weapon such as that?”

Shiro doesn’t know what kind of acknowledgement he was expecting or what kind of voice this person seemed to possess and even though it’s muffled by the mask, it’s undeniably male. Shiro kind of expected the voice to be older or something more seasoned because of how fluid the person moved, a sight that beholds untold years of effort and practice to master such an artful and fluid ease the way those blades were wielded. There’s so much grace and deliberation over his movement that it seems so flawlessly executed.

He is worthy of the envy his own knights would feel at such graceful movements.

“I didn’t know that I would run into this.”

The stranger seems to scoff or at least, the ex-knight thinks so. The man shifts and Shiro still can’t help but be mesmerized by the flow of feathers of that cape. It’s such a strange item of clothing, one that Shiro is curious to understand who had sewn their time with enough thread to create such an item. He wants to know what bird had given themselves to be a part of such an interesting item of clothing.

The stranger sheathes his blade but not before he quickly jerks it to the side again a few times in an attempt to clear off the still-clinging insides of the beast—scourge beast, Shiro’s mind supplies helpfully, watching as the blood is thrown against the ground. The stranger shifts before putting his blade away.

“You’re not a hunter,” that catches Shiro’s attention, “so there is no reason for you to think you can survive against a beast such as this. You’re only putting yourself in needless danger.”

Shiro can’t help but feel like this criticism is not needed, and he can’t help but allow himself the opportunity to defend himself. “Hey, I don’t know this area because I am not from around here, I’m not familiar with it, so I wouldn’t know if there was anything out here that would look to harm me.”

The man doesn’t seem to be listening so Shiro presses on with, “do not hold judgement for someone who had no idea what is out there in the first place.”

“Why? Ignorance such as that is what will cost you your life.”

Shiro is about respond and begins to draw himself to his full height, ready to argue with his savior (way to go, Shiro, he thinks) when the stranger moves, hands reaching up toward his mask, pulling down his hood and reaching behind his head. There seems to be clasps there and fiddles around with what looks to be two of them, unhooking them. It makes the mask on his face loosen, falling down but the man catches it before it can fall to the ground. He pulls the mask off as he pulls the secondary hood off that must be for the mask to not grate against his skin.

When the man looks up, Shiro feels his entire world shift in a way that he wasn’t expecting.

He gazes upon a face of fair moonlight skin with long chunks of bangs that frame his face, messy due to the mask’s removal and the hood. Shiro can see long, midnight-colored hair that’s been braided and wrapped loosely around the man’s neck in two coils as the excess hangs and touches just below where Shiro assumes is the man’s collarbones, frayed and spilling from the braid. Shiro can’t help but study the man’s face, tracing over high, full cheekbones, the delicate curve of his nose situated above a ruby-stained mouth shaped into one of the most unwelcome frowns Shiro has ever come across.

But it’s those eyes—Shiro can’t tell what their color is or what they’re leaning toward, but they’re focused on Shiro in such a way that speaks beyond his years, and they give such an expression that Shiro knows only comes with experience of many battles long fought as their hardships bear down on them in an effort to wither their souls.

Any kind of words that Shiro was withdrawing from his lungs become ash on his tongue.

He’s so…

Beautiful.

Shiro is not stranger to the attraction of the male audience and he has even acted on it at times when he was allowed enough downtime to pursue his own salacious desires, especially when he was didn't want to live a life with a wife and children when his duties to his queen was more important to him. He did not need a wife, he did not need children, he did not see himself living a life settled within Cainhurst’s walls to become idle in his life. It’s not due to his lack of attraction to women or desire to be with them in any sort of romantic or sexual way, something his fellow knights were grateful for as many admitted they would stand no chance against him for a woman’s attention, but it’s because he couldn’t see or feel like it was important enough to quit his position as seasoned commander of Cainhurst’s knights.

He could see no purpose given to him if he were to settle into that life and he would find no gratitude in not serving his queen and tending to a life without a weapon in his hand and a shield in the other.

That kind of life just couldn’t give him any purpose.

Shiro pulls himself out of his thoughts about the man’s appearance, not wanting to speak something that could offend him, and instead watches the man in front of him. He steps forward, and, “I don’t claim to know what life you have led to make you think that you have to always be fearful,” and Shiro watches those eyes narrow as he moves forward, “but I will tell that I owe you thanks for saving my life.”

Shiro comes to stand in front of the man and at this distance, he can see the color of the man’s eyes and he finds himself fascinating. It’s this swirl of lilac, a deep color that resembles some of the precious flowers that were grown in Cainhurst’s courtyards and a crowning jewel of the castle’s beautiful gardens.

The thought creates a saddened longing to gaze upon those flowers again.

Shiro shuts down those thoughts before they can do anymore damage to his frayed soul.

Instead, Shiro extends a hand out, keeping his metal arm at his side even though he’s so used to using that hand and the ex-knight has no idea how he’s going to let himself allow the use of it. The man seems to contemplate this, looking at Shiro’s hand before he decides against it as he brushes past Shiro, holding onto his mask, without choosing to acknowledge Shiro’s open hospitality.

The man (hunter, he is a hunter, Shiro remembers) stops feet behind Shiro as he turns to look at the man as his hand falls away, back to his side. The man stops, turning his head, and a soft, “it would be wise for you to not stumble into danger like this. You don’t know how to fight these monsters. Don’t think I will be here to save you next time. Do yourself a favor and leave because this town is full of so many monsters, especially in places you least expect it.”

Well, so much for this stranger’s way with words.

Straight to the point, a quality Shiro grudgingly has to admire.

Shiro watches as the man walks away, watching the feathers move in the breeze that has chosen to brush its fingers through the man’s shoulder-length hair. Shiro ignores the desire to go after him cause he’s not some unbroken horse unable to resist hay, but he knows that he can’t truly follow the man, not with how Shiro had seen how receptive the man was to his own gentled behavior.

There’s something about that man that Shiro can’t shake off, whether it was the seriousness at the corners of his eyes, with tragic set of his face that has seen much more than Shiro would think, or if it’s the terribly beautiful face that Shiro wants to chase after, he doesn’t know, but Shiro can’t say that he would have a chance at being able to follow the man.

 

 

\--

 

 

There is a moment after, when everything has settled back into a quieted atmosphere does Shiro feels his knees shake apart and collapse to the ground, knees colliding with the ground that doesn’t register with him as it registers in a vague, distanced way as all that happened within the last few minutes finally makes an impact against his mind. The fight that had poised his body to fight drains from him and down his arms and makes a mess at his feet that Shiro collapses into.

His breathing is choppy, his eyes are widened that don’t see what they’re looking at, his mouth agape as his lungs work tirelessly to cater to his body’s overwhelming need to replace what it has lost. Shiro falls forward as his arms belatedly remember to catch him that slams his palms into the stone ground, pushing through dirt and blood that coats the surface, fingers digging their nails into the stone as Shiro comes to terms with what has happened.

It’s an awful reminder that he’s not like how he used to be, he’s nowhere near how he used to be, and it’s an ugly taste on his tongue that leaks acrid into his throat that Shiro has to think how he used to be so revered, so respected. He was everything a knight should be, what a warrior should be that so many wished to train under his sword and press their fingers so reverently along his armor.

Hair hangs in Shiro’s eyes, all of it not mattering as Shiro gasps, his lungs burning but not a concern. Shiro blinks, trying to get himself under control but still having trouble trying to find his center.

How his queen should be so disappointed in what he’s become.

His mortality was so freely vulnerable to even the most benign of creatures that Shiro can’t believe just how he was so close to meeting the end of his life. Never had he felt that as a knight, that if he met the other end of a sword that he stood between to protect his homeland, his country, his queen, then he would gladly accept that fate.

It’s funny how things change.

It’s with the dawning of the realization that the scarred man wants to live, that he doesn’t want to allow his life to slide through his fingers and be trampled by the feet of men that have no concern for what has been lost. It takes a moment for the ex-knight to breathe, fingers curling into his palms as his knuckles grate into the stone below. With every collapse of his lungs, with every heated breath that passes his tongue, Shiro becomes centered, his focus is returning, and the ground doesn’t look like a smear of color and blurred to hazy details.

It takes a while—deep breaths, exhale, remember the training a knight needs to find the center of their world and let everything fall away into monochrome where the only color is their lie, a mass of bright and brilliant blends of colors.

Even the most breathtaking of stained-glass designs of a church can’t rival what has to be seen of their soul.

A last exhale, a breath of finality, and everything clears and sharpens.

Before he can do anything else, Shiro has to retrieve the map he had dropped in the chaos of the bea—scourge beast’s attack and finding it crumpled with a harsh splash of blood on it but not enough to obscure the directions he needs. The map has a ripped edge but not enough to make it unusable, but he has to be careful to not agitate the tear or he’ll be unable to go back to Shay’s clinic. The ex-knight knows he doesn’t won’t be able to find his way back to be able to get another map from her. Shiro is also too afraid to try to scrape off some of the blood because the paper is not fragile with the wetness on it and having to be more careful than he normally would be.

Shiro feels around in one of his pockets, patting it down to find the small amount of coin that Shay had given him to buy food for when he became hungry, knowing that his stomach was beginning to protest its empty space.

It wouldn’t hurt to stop before he continued as near fatal experiences tends to inspire a need to fulfill the senses in an attempt to satisfy a longing in what one has denied themselves for their whole life.

 

 

\--

 

 

Shiro finds a small bar that is situated in a corner off a street that’s quiet and without the bustle of crowds that favor the more common streets of what Shiro has seen of this city. It’s unassuming, it has a calmed exterior of darkened wood and soft red bricks. A lantern hangs outside off the building’s sign, Sal’s Pub, that is lit and tells all that it is open for business.

Shiro looks down at the amount of coins he has and knows he will have enough as Shay was generous and concerned about his wellbeing. He moves them around in his hand and feels a kind of phantom touch with his other… arm, and Shiro could almost feel the light weight of coins in his hand, can see the etchings of his queen against them, detailed and with the utmost care that has gone into them to design them.

How he longs for that again.

Shiro hesitates at the door before he finally goes into the building.

It’s not what Shiro had expected, although what he was expecting, he doesn’t have the faintest clue.

The inside is a low yellowed light that gives a kind of ambiance to it with a flicker of candles inside gold bulbs that are purposefully covered with a light coat of ash to dim the glow. The floor is of a mahogany with a scarlet tone embedded into it that has this polished tone. The space isn’t crowded, there aren’t people imbibed with alcohol that can’t help their loose lips that can’t get their teeth to close on and hold them—in fact, there are a few people here, not too many, but Shiro doesn’t get this distinct smell of over-ripened stomachs and the putrid stench of breath that looks for a good time in the wrong places.

The floor doesn’t creak as Shiro advances in, coming toward two steps just barely into the area. He hesitates as though crossing this threshold will mean something; however, Shiro knows how he must look, hesitating, giving the image of a regret that seeks these places in their desperation ad moves forward. The last thing the ex-knight needs to look anymore foreign in a place infamously known for its rejection of outsiders.

Shiro takes a seat at the bar and places his elbows onto the countertop—smooth and without any roughened texture that Shiro would be wary of splinters from—and stares at the counter as he doesn’t really know why he thought of coming to a bar would help him. However, from Shiro’s experience, it’s bars where the most truth lies, with loosened limbs and an eager tongue are the easiest to pry apart and take what they give without any force. There is a chance Shiro can get some kind of information about the town from them.

A man approaches Shiro, hulking in his appearance, bearded with bloated muscles, that takes in Shiro’s appearance before, “I don’t care what kind of business from the outside you have,” and Shiro is prepared to be told to leave and that he should have expected, “but coin is coin. My name is Sal, and I don’t care were it came from. So, what’ll you be having?”

Shiro’s brows reach upward for a moment but hesitates. It’s when Sal grunts, straightening himself up before, “you’ve not been here so I don’t expect you to know what kind of drink I have. I’ve got all kinds of drinks and food that’ll get you done up in no time.”

Shiro can’t place the accent of these people but he’s never spent much time outside of Cainhurst when it wasn’t battle related, so it’s only reasonable that Shiro doesn’t have any experience. It’s no use in trying to copy them to try to blend into the crowd more seamlessly and he doesn’t waste any time on trying to figure it out.

“I’ll have an ale,” and that’s a safe drink, it’s common.

“Pretty vague there. I’ve got all kinds of ale.”

“It’s okay, Sal, he’s pretty new around here and we had him come out to get some of your delicious pie.”

Shiro has no idea who said that.

The ex-knight chances a look beside him to see two people sitting next to him, both with relaxed postures, nursing their own large cups of alcohol that Shiro doesn’t know the name of.

One has tanned skin with short but messy chocolate hair, curling around his ears and framing his sharp face and easy-going features, and grin that highlights a playful nature of his face. He’s sharp, angular planes and whipcord lean with sky-colored eyes. His attire isn’t anything that Shiro as seen, composed of darker colors that mutes its presence. Shiro is also aware of the set of firearms that is latched onto his leg, a long rifle that sits on the ground beside his leg. He’s sitting the closest to Shiro, and the looseness of his limbs and the casual sprawl suggests of a less serious nature.

That, or he’s close to becoming inebriated.

Then there is his companion, a more hulking person that’s closer to Shiro’s size with darker skin and burnished eyes that are just as inviting as the other man’s. There is a sandy-toned headband wrapped around his head that seems to keep heavy, onyx-colored hair from his eyes, shaggier than not and hangs in his face. He’s more rounded, sturdier in appearance, with softer curves and wide arms of muscle that tell of power and strength that are gentled around a glass with a delicate touch. He, too, has a similar attire on but Shiro doesn’t see any kind of firearm or weapon. He’s got a hand around the handle of a large glass that’s almost empty as he stares with the other man.

Speaking of him, he’s loud and boisterous as he leans against Shiro, wrapping an arm around him before jerking Shiro to him, his nose wrinkling at the wreak of alcohol on the man’s breath. “My friend here…”

He sighs.

“Shiro.”

“Yes, She-ro here, is new and has just begun his training as a hunter.”

There’s that word again, that title.

“You would understand why he’s not familiar with anything around here. Sal, please give him a break. You know hunters die so very young, unable to enjoy the simple pleasures of life.”

Sal doesn’t look impressed.

Shiro is also realizing that this man doesn’t have the same accent as Sal.

“Lance, just cause you’re fancy with a gun doesn’t mean you can shoot me where it’ll do me in.”

The man, Lance, makes a wounded sound, dramatic and with all kinds of flare that the ex-knight hasn’t come across in so very long. “Oh, Sal, you are wounding me so.”

Sal grunts, “yeah, off with your loud tales, just tell me what’ll he have?”

Lance turns to Shiro, wide grin still on his face, enthusiasm still vividly on display that Shiro thinks it’s almost a physical touch he can feel, “She-ro—”

“Shiro.”

“Yeah, your favorite drink is ale, I would suggest you get the cinnamon ale.”

Shiro narrows his eyes, considering it if he should, but these men seem friendly enough, willing to talk to him and perhaps, Shiro can gain information and answers about a few things.

“Yes, I will have the cinnamon ale.”

Sal straightens up, “that’ll be four coins.”

After giving him the amount needed, Sal ambles off to the other side of the counter as Lance and uncurls his hand from around Shiro’s shoulder and leans forward, crossing his arms and placing his elbows on the counter as he moves the outside arm to grasp at his drink.

“Alright, Shiro, is that right? You don’t look to be very familiar around here. What business do you have here?”

Shiro bristles somewhat—Sal comes back with a glass of amber-colored liquid and sets it down—at the being prodded for information, but in the end, he decides to give up his position because he has a feeling that this man isn’t hostile. Lance didn’t frame his question as accusatory or with any trace of suspicion. He seems genuinely curious.

“My name is Shiro, and I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Lance eyes him from the side but his companion moves forward to look past Lance. “So, you’re not a hunter? With your size and presence? I would assume you were.”

“Hunk, not any person with muscles is a hunter.”

“Could’a fooled me.”

“I was meaning to ask about that. What is a hunter?”

Both Lance and Hunk look at each other, twin expression of confusion that etch into their faces before Hunk breaks the silence with, “you’re kidding, right? Everyone knows what the hunters are for, it’s common knowledge.”

Shiro can only stare helplessly back at them.

Hunk’s face falls even more, his brows climbing higher on his face and nearly moving into his headband as his shoulder seem to slump.

“Oh, you’re not kidding, are you? You really do not know, huh?”

As Hunk continues to state the very obvious truth that only further proves to alienate Shiro further from them, Shiro’s stare is becoming more deadpan and his mouth twists into a deepening frown. Shiro resists voicing his displeasure at having answer the same questions that are rephrased differently.

Hunk raises one of those thick arms to scratch at the back of his head, “wow, I never thought I would run into someone who didn’t know what a hunter was. Kind of a world out there, you know?”

Shiro sighs, more than aware of his lack of knowledge about the subject. “I was hoping that you tell me about what hunters are. I have come from a place that did not have a need for hunters.”

There’s a flabbergasted surprise that sprawls onto Lance’s face as his body shifts to angle toward the ex-knight’s body, back straightening as Shiro moves back to give the other man room. His arms raise, “okay, hold up,” and his hands wave in a manner that Shiro thinks that he’s rejecting this notion, “what do you mean, there is no need for hunters?” and Shiro is getting the distinct feeling that there may be some surpassed dramatic flare that Lance is holding back on.

Lance continues with, “hunters are an essential part of keeping mankind safe from beasts. A hunter is what makes a town safe for people. How do you not have hunters?”

Shiro moves back even further, his own eyebrows pushing up toward his hairline, his drink forgotten, to escape the rapid-fire questions Lance is giving him, obviously not used to this kind of press from someone. In the midst of it, Shiro thinks about his home, the castle, the people he grew up, the people he trained under and in return, trained them. In the next moment, all he sees is fire that touches all he can see and splattered blood across such regal statues that crack and too many sounds that cry for the destruction and decimation and, “ _I have always desired to live to see the day where all this filth is finally judged by God himself_ ,” that—

“Hey, are you okay, Shiro?”

This jars Shiro’s mind, cracking and shattering the memories around that splinters to the ground as his eyes focuses beyond the mess they have created, finding himself in the middle of those shards and the awareness coming back to him. He looks up, not realizing his head had been lowering but does his best to right himself.

Hunk looks concerned and, “you left yourself for a moment there, my friend. Are you alright?”

Shiro tries to gather himself together enough to allow his mouth to shape into what he hopes is a friendly smile, but he feels it to be too shaky, but he hopes to pass it off as something presentable. He doesn’t need these two to feel pity for a time they never knew and for what Shiro longs for.

“It’s okay. Just thinking of a time long ago that I miss.”

“I understand,” and Hunk leans forward, this look of longing that designs the dark-skinned man’s face into empathy, “I miss my mother’s food, and my father’s carriage that he would let me steer, and our beautiful horses—”

“Okay, Hunk, that is quite enough,” and Lance waves a hand around. “As Shiro was saying.”

The scarred takes a breath as he tries to ready himself to keep the bitterness from his tone as the loss of the castle, his people, his queen, is still fresh in his mind no matter how much time he has last since his captivity.

“There was no need to have what you would call hunters. I come from a land far from here, from behind castle walls—”

“You lived in a castle?”

Shiro smiles, turning his head as he leans forward to grasp at his drink, holding the glass a small distance from his mouth, “yes, I lived in a place called Cainhurst. It was the most beautiful place that one could live in. It was full of life, statues carved fr0m the finest marble, gardens with the most beautiful of flowers, and the knights that trained within the walls the finest soldiers that a general could ask for.”

Shiro takes a drink from his glass, letting the familiar heat of the alcohol warm his throat before, “I was raised in Cainhurst. They took me in when I was a child, arriving at the gates with nowhere to go. My queen took me in and saw a greatness destined within me. I trained under the most noble of knights until one day, I was promoted to a prestige position that commanded respect from everyone around me.”

“But,” and Hunk hesitates before pursuing, “why are you here? It sounds like you had everything your heart could desire.”

There’s a bitter laugh in Shiro’s throat that nearly splits it with the force it tries to push against it as it wants to leave his mouth. “I did have everything I could ever desire, and I had no intention to leave Cainhurst. But,” and Shiro can feel his fingers tightening against his glass, an anger that begins a slow ascent up his spine that’s blackened with loss and sorrow, “Cainhurst was attacked by a vengeful covenant of people, known as the Executioners.”

Lance’s eyebrows pull together, head tilting somewhat as a hand comes to set on his chin. “That does sound familiar, I cannot remember where I have heard such a title. Hey, Hunk, do you know who they are?”

“Sorry, Lance, I am just as lost as you are.”

Shiro leans back, a sigh leaving his throat as he continues. “They are a part of the Church, and they see Cainhurst as a sworn enemy and in desperate need of being destroyed. They despised Cainhurst and believed that we were conspiring to bring evil upon man with our blood.”

“Your blood? I thought blood was used for healing purposes? Does the Church not practice healing blood?”

Shiro’s eyes glance to the side at Lance. “I know not of what the Church does, or their study of blood, or what they choose to do, but a long time ago, we brought back blood from Byrgenwerth that the Church considered corrupt. We had discovered our own method of using blood and brought it to Cainhurst, where our queen, Honerva, found use of it.”

“Sounds as though the Church grew with jealousy.”

Shiro hums as he takes a drink.

“The Church had given us the name Vilebloods, as they believed that were a filth on the world and sought vengeance against us. They found a weakness in our defenses and exploited it, and they stormed the castle and eliminated all they found.”

Hunk makes a sound, a grimace of sorts, “I can see why they were named the Executioners.”

There’s a sadness that pools into Shiro’s chest, thick and cloying, as he has to remember the details of what happened, the carnage, the blood, the hands slick with that dig further into the castle’s heart that hunger for than what can be given.

“We fought them with all we had but there were too many of them. It appeared that they had been plotting this attack for quite some time and our defenses didn’t fair well against them. Even though we took out so many of them, it wasn’t enough to stop them. I was prepared to die for Cainhurst, to protect it with my entire being but it was not enough in the end.”

Lance looks away and down at the table, his mouth moving as he takes a breath before he reaches out a hand to clasp it onto Shiro’s shoulder, the touch firm and assuring.

“Shiro, I am sorry that happened and you lost everything.”

“I have had time to come to term with it,” and that is nothing but false words that sting against his tongue, “and I thank you for that.”

“If you don’t mind me inquiring,” and the larger of the pair hesitates, “how did you escape?”

This is the part where Shiro isn’t sure of himself, where his memories begin to blur and lose their shape into a mass of colors indistinguishable from each other. The long-haired man stares at his half-full glass, watching as the bubbles unhinge from the clear inside before he lets himself think.

“To be completely truthful, I don’t know that myself. My memories are hazy and unclear, but I was taken captive by the Executioners.”

This is a part where Shiro doesn’t know the linear movement of how his time progressed, what had happened between that time and when he woke up in Shay’s clinic but there is a part that isn’t sure if he wants to know what happened to him or if he shouldn’t be aware of what had befallen him during that time. From these pieces that seem to unhinge from his mind in intervals Shiro doesn’t know how to track or know what is making them choose the time to present themselves, the scarred man can tell that they are of a dark place that he wishes to not visit.

“That is unfortunate, Shiro.”

“I do not know of what they did to me, but I get flashes of what happened to me sometimes. It’s not completely clear, but from what I can tell, they’re not very good. I fear they may have done something to me that cannot be undone,” and with that, Shiro chances something as he raises his left arm that gets the attention of the other two hunters—what a title that it—that try to look around him to his raising arm, “and it scares me to not know what they have done and how it can affect me.”

Shiro has his arm out and turns his palm upward and slowly closes his fingers as he gets the sensation of a muted touch against his palm. The movement is slow, methodical and deliberate, as Shiro closes his hand and creates a fist that creates virtually no sound or feeling of something shift. Shiro can’t even hear any kind of gears that may be working in his arm, he doesn’t know if it’s solid metal or what, but whatever it is, it is a quality of engineering that surpasses anything that he knows of or has seen. There’s no way that this arm of a human invention with how it moves so fluid and smooth as a creek of calm water, and that its origin is a tale that Shiro doesn’t know if he wants to know.

To know what kind of thing has been gifted to his body.

Shiro unclenches his fingers in the same controlled motion and lets his fingers hang loose before he brings it closer to his body and clenches the fingers back into a fist as his eyes fall on it. It’s still there, that feeling, that sensation that there’s something there, there’s something more that resides within this arm. It’s so indistinct to a point that the ex-knight has no real idea to understand or know. It writhes inside, it expands, it feels likes it _breathes_ , and it puts edge into him because of the unknown it has.

“They did something to me, the Executioners, and I have no idea what I am dealing with, what they did to me.”

The other two are quiet but Shiro doesn’t expect them to know what to do or to ask about anything as Shiro isn’t sure if e can give them the answers that even he seeks himself.

“I don’t claim to have the answers that you want,” and Lance is looking at the table before he turns his head to look at Shiro, “but I think I know someone you can go see.”

Shiro’s frayed mind desperately latches onto that but he doesn’t want to look so eager for something that may not be able to satisfy what he desperately needs to know. He needs to be level-headed about this.

“I know of a friend I have. Her name is Pidge, she lives a small distance from where we are, but she deals with all manner of machines. I don’t really understand them or know why she loves them, but she does.”

That name, the same one that Shay told him about.

“She’s very good at understanding machines but don’t tell her I said that because she will never let me live it down.”

Shiro sits on this, thinking about the possible things that he could ask this Pidge and if it’s at all possible if Shiro will be able to understand and know just what he is dealing with. It forms a longing in his chest, a need that Shiro doesn’t want to feed into too much.

Oh, that also reminds him.

“You mentioned it earlier but what is a hunter?” Shiro doesn’t have any real context for what a hunter is, how they came to be, and why, exactly, are they here and if Shiro is going to be in this tow for a while, he may as well learn what they are and what they do.

Hunk beats Lance to it, starting with, “okay, so hunters are a group of people that are called upon to hunt beasts. You see, beasts are monsters and they are evil, and they show up anywhere they desire to. They cause nothing but harm and destruction wherever they go. People call on us, hunters obviously, to help them out and get rid of them.”

Lance comes in behind him, leaning back as his head tips back as a shine takes to his eyes, his hand raised to form a fist that hovers in front of his chest, his voice speaking in the utmost importance, “hunters are brave people that see darkness, they see the things that man would rather run away from, and I pledged myself to save as many people as I can. Hunters fight for the good of man, we do it because someone has to do it.”

That... sounds really noble.

Hunk just stares at Lance, a deadpan look on his face as he takes a loud drink.

“It is that.”

“It is more than that,” and the tanned man puts his head down as his eyes close, fist still raised and poised, “we protect so many people. All people, from towns people to any princess that may call upon our help—”

“There he goes again,” Hunk mutters quietly into his drink.

“—and it is our sworn duty to rescue anyone that needs our help.”

If he were being honest, Shiro thinks he can see a halo of light around Lance.

The explanation doesn’t quite give Shiro very much, but he feels as though if he asks anymore, Lance is going to give him an even more grand explanation of this without truly answering any question he may bring forth. He coughs, trying to hold himself back, but that also reminds him.

“Earlier,” Shiro begin, “I may have met with a hunter.”

The other two lean toward him as Shiro keeps going, “I believe I had run into a beast, a large wolf-like creature—”

“Oh, a scourge beast, a very nasty beast,” and Hunk has a quality of offering condolences in his voice.

“—in an alleyway. I managed to get away, but there was a hunter that was in the area and saved me. I know not of his name or where he came from, but he had this cape of feathers—”

“Wait, wait, _wait_ —feathers?” is very persistent from Lance, who seems to be jarred and with offense on his face.

Did Shiro say something wrong?

“Yes, he had feathers.”

“Were they crow feathers? Black and very flowing?”

Is that what they were? Shiro thinks about that for a moment and, “yes, there were. Do you know him?”

“Oh, do I know _him_ ,” and Lance grumbles this, his face souring and truly, the ex-knight does not know what he just did or said. “That’s Keith, the Crow, and trust me, he is not a very good hunter.”

There is doubt that coalesces into Shiro’s stomach, heavy and weighted, because he distinctly remembers this Keith showing such dexterous grace when he killed that scourge beast and saved Shiro from it, making the entire process look as though a young child could master such moves that he effortlessly made look graceful. It is highly unlikely that Keith is a skilled hunter, wielding a blade that splits into two, that displays a swordsmanship that rivals even some of the finest knights that Shiro has known.

Before he can interject a protest into this, Hunk snorts, and answers with, “Lance here is just very miffed that Keith beat him.”

“I am not!” Lance is definitely miffed. “I am just merely pointing out that he plays dirty and unfair—”

“Don’t worry, Keith is a really good hunter, he just happens to work alone, and Lance is upset and thinks that Keith doesn't deserves his praise.”

“I work just as hard as him—I am Sharpshooter Lance, the greatest firearms expert out there. My ability to shoot a weapon with such accuracy is unparalleled, much better than Keith’s child knives that he insists using.”

Hunk sighs as he pats Lance on the shoulder, “it’s okay, Lance, you are just as good as Keith, and you deserve to be just as praised.”

That seems to placate Lance enough.

“Is Lance making a fuss about Keith again?” Oh, Shiro forgot about Sal.

Hunk responds with a loud, “it’s alright, Sal, he will be fine.”

The broad man is bewildered by the sudden change in Lance’s demeanor, someone who expressed a carefree and enthusiastic attitude is suddenly beside himself about some kind of jealousy about Keith, whom Shiro had met for a short time and exchanged very few words with. Shiro doesn’t know Keith personally, he doesn’t know if he’ll even get the chance to talk to Keith, but he highly doubts that Keith is what Lance is making him out to be.

(Some of that may be due to Shiro’s attraction to him, wanting to defend him.)

Hunk shakes his head before leveling a look at Shiro, “it’s okay, Shiro, Lance always gets like this when Keith is mentioned. They are both somewhat friends, if you believe it or not.”

Lance looks betrayed as he gazes at Hunk.

“I see you’re going to find it comfortable to not sleep in our bed tonight.”

Shiro’s brows raise fast.

“Lance, you say that every time you think I am defending Keith and not supporting you.”

“You are my partner, not Keith’s—please do not think about that—it is your duty to agree with me.”

“You know I cannot trust anything you say when it comes to Keith.”

“Hunk, this is betrayal of the highest level.”

“It’s going to be okay, Lance, we have discussed this many of times.”

Hunk looks back over at Shiro over Lance head, who has collapsed and placed his forehead on the table, clearly not happy about Hunk’s betrayal” and pats the back of his head before allowing it to settle there. “Do not worry about him, he will get over this, he just needs some time.”

Shiro hazards a moment to say, “I hope I didn’t do anything to upset.”

Hunk only shakes his head. “It is a simple rivalry that Lance believe he and Keith are locked into, but it only is Lance who believes this.”

Lance makes a protesting grunt.

“Don’t worry, Shiro. He will be fine. But I am curious about why you would need to see Pidge, but you really do not need to tell us, but just curious.”

Finishing off the rest of his drink, Shiro sets the glass gently down onto the counter, “I need answers, I need to know if Pidge can help me with what I have. I don’t know what happened to me or if I want to know, but I have to find answers.”

“If it helps you in your search, Pidge is very reliable and is knowledgeable about machines. I don’t understand them myself, and my parents only understand how the wheels on the carriage works, and even I am not sure how they completely work—”

“Hunk, you are rambling again,” is muffled from Lance.

“But Pidge would be happy to listen to you.”


	2. Chapter 2

It takes longer than what Shiro would like to admit leaving the bar, finding Hunk and Lance to be an interesting pair to keep him company, parting amicably and sure that he’s going to run into them again, especially since he will be enlisting help from Pidge about his arm and what he can possibly learn from her. Shiro hasn’t known many people interested in inventions and learning about these mechanical creations. Shiro doesn’t worry himself with what these machines can do or how they come to creation. He’s only worried about his sword and shield, his purpose, and everything else that comes after his duty is to be thought of after. However, Shiro will admit he’s curious about them at times but not enough to actively pursue them.

Shiro finds himself in front of a small building, a sign that reads  _Holt Inventions_ in a fancy scrawl but other than that, the building is unassuming. The brick that lines the outside is obviously cared for, painted with maroon tones, and a wooden door that asks Shiro to invite himself in. There is a lantern that burns that tells Shiro, like Sal’s bar, that it is open for business. Folding the map and securing it, Shiro takes the first steps in what he hopes are will bring him information.

The door chimes when he opens it but Shiro is more concerned with what he sees.

The entire room is lined with all manner of machines. There are tall clocks that lines one of the walls, carved and crafted with designs from floral designs to metal shaped into small, intricate patterns that all make tapping sounds as the levers inside make their leisure turn. There are newspaper press machines that sit on display, there are sewing machines that are in another area, even these steam presses that are displayed to lure the eye of fashion designers that are looking for the newest trend. There other things that Shiro doesn’t know what they are or where they come from, but he can’t stay to admire them when he has other things to do.

He maneuvers through the devices, all set up in random places and crowds the amount of room that inside, almost to a point of borderline chaos. There is a long chair pushed against a wall further into the store, worn with use and years upon it, and it also has a few pieces of machinery set onto it.

Shiro continues on his journey to make it through this seeming maze of metals and odd designs that he can’t place, but he gets closer to a counter that lies in the back. The closer the ex-knight gets to the counter, he sees a figure sharpen in detail that sits behind the counter with their head down. Shiro can see auburn hair that’s messy and short but he can’t tell anything else. Shiro gets closer and can see there are large-framed glasses the person wears.

“Hello,” and this gets the stranger’s attention. Curious, light auburn eyes find him, skimming over his appearance before they look back down as, “if you are hear to inquire about one of our newest clock models, you need to acquire a steam generator as stated—”

“That is… not what I am here for.”

They look up at Shiro again and Shiro can finally see the person he’s talking to.

A delicate face, softened and rounded with a peach color appearance that’s outlined with mussed bangs that give away how young the person is. She has a small nose, a mouth that’s has a curious lilt to it, and eyes that are more inquisitive than what Shiro has eve seen in a long time that’s behind a large pair of glasses, much more than what Shiro would expect.

“No?”

“I am not here for that. I have a different motive.”

“If you have any questions about any of the machines that you have purchased—”

Shiro holds up a hand, “I am not here for any of your inventions, I was advi—”

“This is a place of new advancements in machinery and sciences. There isn’t anything else that is different.”

Shiro smiles, a rueful sort of thing, reaching his other hand up to [push at the hair that has fallen into his face. Perhaps he should tie it up and be done with it being a nuisance.

“I think I may have some else that may be of your interest.”

“Oh, do you now?” Her voice holds an inquisitive nature as well as a hint of disbelief that underlines her words. It’s also a lot younger than what Shiro would expect from someone to be hind the counter and helping to run a business. Perhaps her mother is somewhere nearby, a father, maybe even a brother?

“I was given word by a healer named Shay, and two hunters by the name of… Sharpshooter Lance and Hunk the Iron Fist—”

The girl stands up suddenly that it effectively halts the words on Shiro’s tongue, his surprise causing him to tilt his head back momentarily. She is shorter than what he thought, assuming it was just a small chair, and much younger than what Shiro originally thought which wasn’t too old to begin with. Shiro knows he’s tall, it’s a reason one of the reasons that makes his stature impressive among the knights at Cainhurst, but the girl is short, the size of a child ready to mature into an adult, and Shiro feels like he should call for someone else.

“Since you put it that way, my name is Pidge,” and okay, this is not what Shiro thought Pidge to be, an image he associated with an old, matured woman, “and I specialize in arca—”

“That is also not what I had in mind.”

Pidge frowns, crossing her arms that does nothing to make her image anymore threatening. Shiro would only need a small part of his strength to break the fragile image that is her defensive stance.

“If you’re not here for that, then what is your purpose here?”

Shiro hesitates for a moment, unsure for a moment about whether or not he should reveal his arm to her. He’s unsure if he should unveil it even to himself, but he’s come this far, and he has nothing left to lose.

How he hates how true that is.

“I come because you have been recommended and your talents can help me.”

Shiro raises his arm, lengthening it out and straightening it to a perfect plane. Pidge watches him as he moves his other hand over, touching the glove that covers his hand. He stops a moment, breathing deeply before he removes if, dropping the glove to the ground. He pushes his fingers underneath the sleeve of his shirt and pushes upward, slowly revealing his arm and the intricate designs and markings that he does all he can to avoid looking at.

With the reveal of his arm, Pidge’s entire being lights up.

“Where did you find that arm?” The quality of her voice is awed, unbelieving of what she’s seeing, and it is a stark difference in what Shiro himself feels about his arm.

“I don’t know,” he chooses to say, turning his hand and curling his fingers, “I woke up in a clinic with it, grafted to my body. I have no idea where I obtained it from.”

“May I see it closer?”

Inhaling to keep himself calm, not entirely comfortable with anyone touching it, not even himself, but swallowing that down and allowing himself to calm himself and become centered again, he lowers his hand. He listens to here for gears turning inside his arm, to feel a vibration of metal grinding against itself as the levers inside turn—he hears nothing, all of it silent, not even the squeak of metal at the elbow of the arm.

The small girl’s expression continues to mount in a kind of joy that so vividly displays how fascinated she is. Her smaller hands take his hand, keeping his palm turned up as she runs her thumbs along the palm in circles, testing out the texture, reverent in what she’s feeling. With reluctance, she takes her hands back and advances behind him. She comes to the door of the shop and goes outside briefly. She comes back and puts the lock on it, darting back his side and toward the counter.

“I am closing the store for now, so I can have a look at your arm.”           

Pidge has Shiro sit down and place his arm on the table after she drug a chair from somewhere inside the mass of machines lining the floor and has him seated to lay his arm flat on the table. His palm laid flat, the metal resting on the counter, as he watches Pidge fawn over his arm.

“This is fine piece of machinery,” and her voice is nearly breathless, “the way it’s so sleek and finely-tuned—I can’t get over how such a piece exists. I mean, look at how it reacts so well to your body!”

Shiro moves his fingers as a point.

A noise of delight leaves Pidge as she watches Shiro do exactly what she said. She encircles his fingers and asks him, “Shiro, move your fingers against the force I am going to apply.”

Pidge turns his palm to place his hand on the table and his palm turned toward her and wraps her fingers around his loose fingers and begins to push them to create a fist. Shiro resists, overpowering the small force she uses. Pidge makes a satisfied sound before she adds more pressure in which Shiro responds with more of his own resistance. Pidge lets go to bring her hands up to her face and exclaim, “Gods above, this is so fascinating!”

Shiro doesn’t know what is so fascinating about this.

Pidge turns around, her voice louder with, “Rover, come here!” and for a moment, Shiro thinks she’s calling over a beloved companion like a dog, but what comes out stops him in his tracks.

A triangle-shaped device with a hole at the bottom front of it where a light is that is behind a circular piece of glass embedded into the machine. It has sky-colored lines that are etched into it that are alight. What gets Shiro the most is that it hovers off the ground, floating toward him, and Shiro would think this would shock him in another time had he not seen so much to dull the shock into a mild surprise.

Pidge holds out her hand, palm up, as the object— _Rover_ , his mind supplies—comes to hover over her hand. There’s a low sound of the turning of gears as the device continues to float above her hand.

“I call this little invention Rover.”

Hesitantly, Shiro asks, “what is it?”

“It’s something I came up with as I was exploring the qualities of what I could do with some arcane magic.”

The ex-knight’s brows furrow at that term. He doesn’t know what that particular term quite is, having never come across the term in all of his readings at the Cainhurt library that he is aware of. He has heard of blood techniques, where using one’s own blood that is infused with magic to gift a blade with power and a far superior range than it normally would, but he’s not heard of arcane magic.

“What I did was use extract it from a few materials—coldblood flowerbuds and tomb mold are good materials to get that from,” Shiro doesn’t know what those are so he can’t comment on those, “and I was not paying attention and spilled some arcane haze on a clock. Before I knew it,” and Pidge moves her hand, the machine following the path and settling back over her hand, “the machine was moving of its own will.”

Pidge looks proud, a content smile and a look in her eyes that give away how proud she is, “I saw that if I added arcane magic to a machine, it can create movement and a certain kind of will for these machines. I started to add them in small doses to other machines and they all achieved a life of their own to a point.”

Pidge lowers her hand and lets her elbow rest on the table, “I had to be careful because I don’t have a large supply of arcane magic and using so much of it was taking a toll on what I had. I then had an idea to try to create a machine that could try to help me look for them. I am already knowledgeable about it, I know I can figure out how to do that, so I set about finding a way. It took so much time to make sure it worked. Now,” she pauses, looking at Shiro, “I have Rover, I use him to track down materials that holds arcane haze to create that magic in them. It saves me so much time and effort, and it even deals with the more… unsanitary materials that arcane magic can come from…”

Shiro comes in after her beat of silence, unsure but wanting to know. “What kind of... materials?”

The auburn-haired woman continues to hold her tongue and lets out a breath, her shoulder slumping somewhat as he demeanor mutes itself a small amount. “When I say unsanitary materials, I mean materials that I am not fond of using that much. These materials are often used in holy chalice rituals. They are what the town discovered that led into these ancient underground paths that were created very long ago. They are used to break the seals that help to guard and hide them. These materials can be… unsavory for people,” and judging by the shudder Pidge tries to keep repressed, it’s not something that seems all that acceptable.

“If I may ask, what are some of them?”

Pidge hums, answering, “I try to stay with materials that come from the dead. A blooming coldblood flowerbud grows from dead blood and takes nourishment in it. Tomb mold is found where the name suggests. I have given Rover magic to find these items and he brings them to me when I require them. The lesser items, well… I have him go to morgue in the city and retrieve… infant remains that perished due to the scourge.”

The scourge… Shiro has heard Shay mention it.

“What is the scourge?”

Pidge stares at her, dumbfounded in many ways that the scarred man doesn’t know how to decipher. It’s a look that is similar to the looks that Lance and Hunk gave him when he asked what hunters were. There’s a lot that Shiro seems to be missing out on that pertains to this town uniquely that continues to emphasize just how much of an outsider he is and in a foreign land he knows nothing about.

“How do you  _not_ know what the scourge is? Have you gone mad?”

There’s a tick in Shiro’s jaw as he’s becoming quite tired of people’s reactions to him not knowing anything. “I am not from around here, I don’t know of this town’s misgivings.”

“That much is obvious, but I am surprised because the scourge has spread far and wide; every land knows of it.”

“From where I come, it has never happened.”

Pidge is skeptical, the look in her eyes not trusting Shiro’s words but she relents.

“The scourge is a disease of beasthood, specifically of lycanthropy. No one knows of its origins, or why it came to be, but it’s a plague upon Yharnam. I have wanted to study it up close and learn why it happens, but I don’t know how to study it without risking myself being exposed to it. The disease infects anyone and seems to affect a person’s mind first, causing them to slowly go mad and become violent toward any person.”

Pidge lets her hand collapse onto the counter and Rover doesn’t follow, only continuing to float. Shiro is somewhat unnerved by the presence of it, but he’s becoming used to it. He wonders if Hunk and Lance have seen this enough that whatever Pidge may come up with, it’s not even to affect them.

“A person’s mind becomes savage and unable to distinguish a person from foe. A sign of it is to look into a person’s eyes. What you will see is that their pupils have turned into a right mess—it’s no longer a circle, but a mushy mess until it covers their entire eye. As that happens, it begins to change their bodies: they start to grow fur, their teeth turn sharp, they grow claws, and their body becomes more beast-like in appearance as they are attacked by the disease.”

There’s a sinking horror that is welling into Shiro’s stomach and he is almost afraid to ask what will proceed this.

“You may have noticed how… human… some of these beasts look.”

Shiro nods.

“That is because the scourge is turning them into those beasts.”

Pidge’s voice is grim as is the subject she’s talking about.

“The end result is a scourge beast. They are what a person becomes, they are what happens when the disease is allowed to complete ravaging their bodies.”

A sharp breath inhales through Shiro’s lungs but he barely notices it.

“And that is why hunters are needed in this town. They act as an extermination for these beasts and help to control the number of beasts in this town. Some say that this is punishment for Yharnam and that the deeds of their past are what brought all of this.”

Shiro has never been one of silly gossip or urban legends that others were fond of or wanted to spread, so he never busies himself with such foolish tales. He finds them wasteful, he sees no value in petty rumors spread because someone faced a slight in their time. Shiro is grounded in fact, he is a believer in the truth spread from the original source, not words that are saccharine to cover the poison that lies underneath. Too many of times has he had to stop his own knights from trying to start an insignificant fight between them that would only tarnish the knights’ respect as well as their precious armor and shields.

There is much wasted time and effort that goes into rumors but there is always some kind of truth in them no matter how small and stretched it is. Shiro is also dealing with virtually knowing nothing about the area he’s in and knowing nothing about their way of life.

He has to accept information wherever he can get it.

He leans forward, allowing his other elbow to come and rest on the table and hunching over it, watching as Pidge goes back to messing around with Shiro’s arm. “What did this town do? I would assume that it’s not good.”

“A long time ago, Yharnam became obsessed with blood. The Healing Church—” another name Shiro files away for further research, “—did a lot of research on this blood they found in the underground labyrinths. They studied it and found that it had many qualities, particularly of healing. Diseases, wounds—anything you can name, blood was used for it. Blood ministrations became so common in Yharnam that the town became obsessed with it. Anything you can think of; blood ministration was used for it.”

Pidge’s hands pause in her movements as though she needs to cease doing anything else to focus on what she’s saying. Her hands are more aimless and without real purpose as long as she is focusing on telling Shiro about the town.

“There are different sources from where the scourge came from. I am not sure how true they are, but the most common one is the Healing Church went too far in their research and angered the Great Ones—” Shiro is trying to follow this, he really is, but there is only so many names dropped that he can handle and understand without further context, “—and the Healing Church was punished and tainted the blood and created the scourge. I have not seen any proof of this or any kind of written text, so I don’t know how accurate at is. I do know Yharnam continues with blood healing and using it to keep the scourge at bay, but I have to wonder how long they can hold it off.”

Shiro doesn’t like how he feels like he’s on the sidelines, unable to contribute to anything, unable to express his own knowledge, and if there’s one thing he’s never been fond of, it’s having no purpose and unable to find one. He’s in a land that doesn’t have enough interest to know his name or his past and let him be an unknown soldier to die in a disgraced position. He’s so tired of it, he’s so tired of feeling so helpless.

“Pidge,” and the ginger-eyed girl looks at him, “what can you tell me about this arm?”

“Oh, right, about that,” and with an adjustment of her glasses, “this arm is of anything I have never seen. First, I have never seen an arm of complete metal and work as a normal human arm does. It’s impossible, we don’t have the machines to do so, and the current advancement of machines and factories are not at the point of even _thinking_ of creating false limbs. I mean, the way the arm responds to you—”

“Pidge.”

“Oh, I was off topic, my apologies. Well, the arm functions like a regular limb,” and Pidge uses both of her hands to encircle his palm and lift it and with visible strain, “but it’s heavy, obviously used with a sturdy metal, one I have never seen before. Do you have difficulty in using it? I know it’s weighted.”

“I have no trouble moving it, and it feels as light as a feather,” Shiro says in a contemplative voice.

“That brings me to another point: you should not be able to move it so easily or move it at all. It is very sturdy and weighted, but we no inventions that are advanced enough to let this arm function like a normal one. It is impossible, which only leads me to believe there is magic at work in this arm.”

There’s a cool flash through the ex-knight’s stomach, but he steels himself and builds his voice into something steady, trying to not let that get to him. “What do you mean, there has to be magic?”

The young woman leans forward as her eyes center on his arm, “if I am reading these correctly, these are Caryll runes that have been placed on this arm, but I do not know what they refer to. I am no expert on Caryll Runes, but I do know them when I see them.”

Again, the context that Shiro is missing only further puts him on edge.

Pidge looks up with a raised eyebrow. “I am assuming you do not know what a Caryll rune is, correct?”

“Remember, I’m not from around here.”

A grin, amused as it is curious, takes shape on Pidge’s mouth. “How did you survive without knowing this information?”

“The arm, Pidge.”

A hum of amusement and, “Caryll runes are transcribed words that call a certain power, certain abilities, without needing blood. They say a man was able hear and understand Oedon, a Great One, and wrote what he had said, and those words brought power without blood.”

“You’re very knowledgeable in all of this.”

“My family are scholars, not just inventors and fascinated to learn everything from this  _industrial revolution_ that people call it. I pride myself in being informed.” Pidge takes a finger and touches a mark on Shiro’s forearm, tracing a finger along the smooth surface, “Caryll runes all mean something different, they all have different abilities, but I don’t recognize any of the ones on your arm. It also—”

The door to the shop, the one that Pidge had locked and secured to make sure that no one can come in, opens, the hinges of them protesting as the bell (Shiro didn’t notice that and wonder how he could have missed that) chimes, creating this completely intrusive sound that doesn’t belong. Shiro tenses, ready to spring into action if this is a common street thief that thinks they can take whatever they please because Pidge is a small woman, and though he may not be a knight anymore, he’s not going to stand idly by and allow tragedy to befall Pidge,

There is a sound in Shiro’s ears, something flowing, something that caresses him in a cold sheen that he can’t understand that rises in sound and settling in his head—

All of that cracks and collapses around him in a sharp-edged mess as he sees who comes through the door.

Shiro blinks because it’s Keith, standing in the doorway, shutting it as, “it’s unlikely of you, Pidge, to close so early,” is in a tone that Shiro finds to be lovely, mask off and held in one arm. He’s turning around and Shiro can tell the exact moment when Keith’s attitude changes, the tensing of his muscles, the narrowing of his eyes. He can also see Keith’s eyes falling on his arm, the entirety of it exposed and on display for all to see. There’s a great urge to yank it back from Pidge and cover it up, to hide the shame that has befallen his being, that has disgraced him, and continue to hide it from all to see.

Keith doesn’t say anything about it.

Instead, to Shiro’s surprise, Keith turns his eyes back to the ex-knight’s face, holding them there before he breaks contact and moves through the store, bypassing the machines and somehow not snaring any of the crow feathers on the items. Even in an enclosed space, the feathers still manage to flow and be fluid in their motion.

“Don’t mind Keith, he sort of lives here,” and at this, Shiro turns with a question in his eyes. “It is a long story, but you would have to ask Keith about it.”

The ex-knight likes to believe he’s a rational person. He’s kind, courteous, stops to feed the small squirrels that like to dart across the castle’s gardens and stop to help small, older women across some of the more daunting stairs that the castle has to offer. He’s one of the best knights that Cainhurst has seen, he was revered by so many and sought after by many to be his squire. Shiro was a symbol of what so many had hoped to strive for.

But right now, Shiro is not fond of the emotion that roils in his gut, sharp and thick, at the mention of Keith living with Pidge.

He doesn’t want to entertain those thoughts, he’s above those kinds of petty feelings.

The scarred man tries to focus back on Pidge, tries to pay attention to her but he’s still stuck on the information that Keith is here, Keith is in this shop, Keith is just here in his presence, and how it’s doing nothing to help him focus on what he knows is pertinent and will help him unravel the mysteries that his arm hold. These are precious details and can help him come to terms with what has been forced onto his body. He just needs—

Steel eyes are darting to the side and his head follows, feeling his hair rustle almost violently when he spots Keith emerging from the back. His crow feather cape is gone, as is the overcoat, and dressed only in his trousers and boots, a plain shirt and waistcoat with simple, small chains that cross over the seam of it that is held together with a belt at the waist. He holds his blade that has dried blood on it, his gloves filthy with it. Shiro supposes that with the information he’s learned about the truth of the scourge, Keith wouldn’t want to touch the blood of those slain beasts. It could also be a reason for the beak—crow mask, Shiro thinks since he wears a cape of crow feathers, and that maybe it further keeps the young hunter from getting it on his face.

Shiro watches him out of the corner of his eye when he tries to turn back to Pidge, tracking as Keith walks to the chair he saw earlier when he came in. Keith sinks down on his and pulls out a cloth that is circular and a tie that is around is. He sets his blade down, puts the cloth down before leaving again.

“This leads to my third point: I am very interested in knowing the person who crafted this arm. They have to be a genius and talented to know how to create such a device. I would love to talk to them and know what they were thinking when commissioning a piece such as this.”

Oh, and Pidge has moved on from speaking of magic and great beings to gushing about the mechanics of this arm again. He can admire her enthusiasm, he can admire a mind wanting to sharpen itself with knowledge and be aware of everything around them. It makes it harder for an entity to control one through ignorance if one knows enough to resist their false tales. The power of knowledge and wisdom will cure any ailment of evil spun from the false guidance of man that seeks to empower their own influence over others.

Pidge is still rambling about the details of his arm and how it came to be when Keith returns with another cloth and small glass of water—at least, it looks like it as it holds a greyed tint to it. Shiro also notices straight away that Keith’s hair is out of the braid it was in while coiled around his neck. A long sheet of midnight black that hangs around his shoulders, with waves that are embedded into it. It hangs long, down to Keith’s lower mid-back while shorter pieces frame his face, accentuating his face and the paleness of his skin, highlighting the slant of his eyes that are studying his blade.

Shiro feels a start inside his chest.

“Shiro, would you know the name of the creator of this arm? I would love to understand how he came to create this arm.”

This snaps the atmosphere that had been created within his mind, falling around him as he scrambles to not injure himself on what’s left of it as he scrambles to understand what Pidge has asked of him without knowing what she was previously talking about. His tongue wants to blunder and slip around the words in his mouth that he panics to shape into something feasible in an effort to keep his image of attentive care and that he doesn’t offend the mahogany-haired girl.

“I, um,” and it registers what he should finally say, “I don’t know who the person is.”

“You have to know their name; how can you not know the name of the person who gave you this magnificent creation?” The whine in here voice is unbecoming of her, but not expected with how hungry the small woman has shown she is for knowledge.

“I’m sorry, Pidge,” is almost rueful, “I don’t even know how I got this arm. I woke up in a clinic only yesterday and missing so much of my memory. I cannot be of any help to locate this person.”

Pidge tilts her head, “I don’t follow. You woke up in a clinic?”

Shiro pulls away from the table, letting his back settle into the chair as his head tilts toward the ceiling as he gazes at nothing in particular, “I don’t know, Pidge. My memory is very unreliable as of late. I have these brief moments where my mind wants to show me something, and I get this feeling of fear and hatred. Whatever happened to me, my mind doesn’t want me to know or remember it. It makes sense,” the broadened man lets his chin tilt down, “I was in captivity because of the Galra and they did things to me that I can’t remember. Perhaps it is for the best that I don’t know what happened to me there.”

Pidge visibly deflates, her enthusiasm leaking from her body until all there is left is her obvious sorrow. “I... I was not aware of that. My apologies for pushing you, I truly did not know.”

Shiro smiles, warm around the edges and inviting, “I understand, Pidge. It’s why I want to know what this arm is, and why it was given to me. It feels significant, what the Executioners did to me and why they gave me this.”

“Executioners?”

Even with the bitterness that leaks into his lungs with the intention to languidly choke him with, the scarred man still presses on. “They are part of the Healing Church, a more volatile part, that viewed me, and my home, as vile creatures and has sworn themselves to eliminating us. I was captured instead of being given an honorable death at my queen’s side, but I was spared and taken. I suppose death would have been a better fate.”

Out of his peripherals, he can see that Keith is paying attention because his hands are slower at cleaning his blade, they have become less methodic and more deliberately slow. It’s nice to know that he has Keith’s attention.

“I believe I am the last survivor of the Vilebloods and castle Cainhurst.”

Pidge moves closer, her eyes alight. “You are a Vileblood? Practitioners of blood techniques that was forged from the forbidden blood brought back from Byrgenwerth?”

Shiro himself is curious. “How much do you know about Cainhurt’s origins?”

Pidge shrugs as she leans back, her hand coming up to clasp at her chin. “There’s not much on them other than what the Healing Church has told us. That you all were heretics and a sworn enemy of the Church that used tainted blood to fulfill your blood hungry fantasies.”

“That sounds just like the Church to preach that.”

Adjusting her glasses, Pidge looks at Shiro before she says, “I don’t have as much knowledge about these runes, I will admit, but I may be able to guide you to someone who does. She knows more about that type of magic than I do. I do more with arcane, not runes, but I have noticed that your arm does give a strange kind of arcane magic. It’s not anything that I have come across in my all my time, but it could be linked to the runes. I will fetch a map and you can have a word with her yourself.”

Pidge moves away, chair scrapping against the floor as she hops off it. With Pidge out of the room, Shiro has no way to distract himself from wanting to look at Keith. The hunter still sits on the couch but he’s hovering over the blade as he works some kind of object against one of the blades as his hair hangs in his face. The ex-knight resists the strong urge to reach out and feel it between his fingers just how soft that hair is.

He thinks about how much it would please him to see it spread out beneath him.

Pidge returns at an opportune moment to wrench him from his thoughts before they can go any further. A map is clutched in her petite hands, worn with an age Shiro can’t know of that’s yellowed and faded. She returns to her chair, shifting onto her knees so she can lean over the table as she presses the map down onto the counter. Her fingers trace over the map and settles down to their location.

“The person you are looking for is named Allura. She knows more about runes in general that what I do, and I recommend her knowledge. It is rumored that she has descended from Caryll himself, taught the original words that Oedon whispered himself.”

Pidge draws her fingers down quite a distance from their location on the map. “She is here but do be careful because there has been an increased number of beasts in this area lately. It is odd because a hunt has taken place nights before. Hey, Keith,” the sound of a blade being sharped halts, “were you not in that area just days before?”

“No.”

“But you have heard of other hunters—”

“You know I don’t listen to what tales the other hunters talk about.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “I’m not talking about Lance’s grand tales of his conquests, I’m talking about knowing of other hunters not clearing out the area of the beasts that were there. Shiro needs to see Allura and I won’t send him to his death before he arrives there.”

Keith looks up, those violet eyes looking at him, taking him in, and Shiro feels the need to straighten his spine and sit with more poise as those eyes brush past him to Pidge. He looks unimpressed.

“Keith.”

“Pidge.”

“ _Keith._ ”

“What will you have me do? Escort? You know I don’t do that.”

“Just because you prefer to—”

“Pidge, I never said no.”

“And I know you are so stub—wait, what was that?”

Keith sighs, setting his blade down on top of the cloth, “I know I work alone, I know that Lance will not accept my level of skill because of some slight he views me as—”

“That Lance won’t admit that he actually admires your skill. He is a little insecure when it comes to that—”

“— _to his existence_ , but I am not heartless, and I will not abandon someone in need no matter how much it troubles me. It is the purpose of hunters to see to this city’s safety.” Keith then turns his eyes on Shiro and it’s like a physical touch, a hand on his shoulder that digs its nails into the soft skin there, “I will only be here in the city for a short time before I leave. There are other places that require my attention.”

“Keith, you know you can take a rest. The Blade of Marmora do not have claim over you.”

“There are others that are in need of help regardless of the Blade of Marmora’s intentions.”

This is a conversation that Shiro isn’t meant to interject into, he isn’t supposed to know the details of as it is clear these two have been over conversations that are similar to this and vary several different ways. It’s a shared one, an intimacy that Shiro doesn’t know how to place—that he won’t admit that he doesn’t want to place or know about as a low whisper that sits at the back of his mind and in the darkened corners light cannot reach that becomes louder in its presence, reminding Shiro that it’s there in waiting and feeding on his thoughts about this. A small little thing Shiro doesn’t like to acknowledge because his knighthood looks down on this petty thing that only serves to feed into his baser desires.

There are a few things that stick out but judging by the few interactions he’s had with Keith, he doubts Keith is willing to talk about them, so Shiro leaves them alone. Instead, Shiro thinks maybe kindness will help Keith loosen himself and allow Shiro somewhat of a closer distance.

“I am grateful for your help, you have my thanks.” Shiro tries to give him a winning smile and hopes it’s even somewhat receptive to the other man.

Keith stares at him for a moment, his eyes locked onto him for a moment before he sighs and picks up his knife again. “It’s fine. We are leaving tomorrow early.”

Guess not.

“It is settled, Keith will bring you to Allura. When you find out the answers you need, do come back to visit and tell me about the arm. I am still very interested in its properties and how it works. I can’t believe how silent the gears are inside of it—or if it even has any gears!”

 

 

\--

 

 

As it turns out, Keith is a little quiet on conversations.

It’s earlier in the morning, with soft rays of sunlight that cast a gentle touch along the surfaces they touch with warm hues and a warm touch. There’s that morning smell of water on the ground that saturates the well-worn stones and makes sunlight appear slick against them, highlighting the cracks and chipped corners. The air is quiet as it is the time of day when people are not out and about and busied with the tasks of the day to complete. Shiro himself is used to waking with the sun and enjoying the highlight of rays along the horizon as they slowly traverse their way across the castle. It’s a gentle sight, one of early morning beauty and lacking any urgency to be completed in any amount of time.

Shiro stands in building warmth of the dawn that brightens the sky, enjoying the unhurried sight of the sun pushing up over the horizon and the array of colors it brings. It’s a wonderful sight, one Shiro continues to enjoy.

Boots against the ground and the closure of a door tells of Keith’s presence and their cue to begin setting off for Allura’s. Shiro turns around to see that Keith is back in his attire, crow feather cape clasped around his shoulders, the overcoat underneath those feathers, and more than likely with his hair braided and wrapped around his neck again (what a shame, Shiro would think, that all of Keith’s hair has to be kept bound, but Shiro isn’t about to let those thoughts be entertained and given a chance to become more than just sounds inside his head) underneath the crow mask. Shiro has a faint urge to ask Keith why he would be wearing full hunter gear and weapons when it’s just a simple escort mission but even Shiro knows that he would walk around the castle grounds in his knight’s armor even though there was no sign of danger or a need to wear it. He understands being cautious even though he’d rather see Keith’s face.

Another look has Shiro noticing that Keith doesn’t have the map Pidge was using to show him Allura’s location and just as he’s about to inquire about that, Keith seems to beat him to it.

“I have been to where Allura lives many times. There is no need for a map.”

Shiro gives him a confirming nod and steps out. Shiro stands to the side to allow Keith to go past him, entranced by the flow of feathers from Keith’s cape. He wonders how much effort Keith has to put into the cape and how much he has to manage. Does he have to hunt crows as well as beasts? How many crows have to be sacrificed into this cape to make sure it is the right number of feathers to keep it maintained?

A little too off topic.

They both set out, the tap of their boots against the ground the main source of noise between them. They go through many streets, take a few shortcuts through alleys (Shiro’s tensed and poised as they enter an alley too darkened for him to feel comfortable with as they casually make their way through them) and continue on through the maze of the city. Shiro does take the time to admire the build of the city and what it has to offer.

The taller man turns his head to Keith, letting his curiosity get the better of him as well as fill the silence between them with something what he sees as counterproductive. They’re going to be together for a little while and that amount of time has no definite sight in end to it, so it does seem like a good idea to know who he’s travelling with.

“Keith, if I may ask, why do you choose to wear a crow’s mask?”

The ex-knight can’t see Keith’s face, he can’t the expressions that may filter onto Keith’s face to see if he’s contemplating answering it. He can tell the mask is going to be quite the hindrance.

They continue to walk, arriving at a split path and stopping to contemplate the direction they need to take—rather it’s Keith who is deciding where they need to go next. He looks right, then left, before settling to go straight and down a somewhat crowded area of stairs that have bags lining the outside, pressed against the support beams for the metal railings. Their boots continue to be the only sound that echoes between them. This doesn’t deter Shiro, only making him more curious.

“If it does make you uncomfortable, you don’t have to answer.”

(Pidge cuts him a look, chin in her hands, “a head of warning: Keith is not the best to make conversation with. I even had trouble trying to convince him to talk to me.”

Not trying to think about what those words may imply, he smiles and hopes it’s a friendly gesture. He’s always been known for his friendly smiles and hopes to call forth that ability. “It’s quite alright, Pidge, I’m sure that I can get him to open up at least a small amount.”

The look she gives him has very little faith.

It is fine, Shiro has a headstrong perseverance.)

Keith does stay quiet, he doesn’t offer any words regarding anything, he doesn’t try to create small talk for the sake of having something to do. The sounds of their boots are their only companion, maybe an occasional horse carriage in the distance, other people that pass by them without a spare glance to what they’re doing, but there isn’t anything other than that and Shiro can feel the beginnings of an awkward silence. Maybe it’s Shiro himself and apart of his imagination, but he doesn’t like this silence and the lack of communication. He’s so used to conversing with his fellow knights, whether they were on a campaign outside of Cainhurt’s walls or passing through one its many labyrinth-like corridors on his way to answer his queen’s call; he always had time to lend his ear to whatever conversation that could be created.

Keith is the opposite, offering no words of anything for Shiro to work with, and may even be stubbornly resisting Shiro’s advances for an open conversation.

The ex-knight resists the urge to sigh.

“I am just merely curious about yo—”

“Look, Shiro.”

Shiro does stop, looking at Keith but they both don’t stop, continuing along a more vacant street.

“I understand you are curious, but it is an unnecessary piece of information that you need to know. I see no reason to discuss this or it being important for this escort.”

Shiro isn’t deterred that easily, but at least he was able to pull something out of the shorter man.

“Why not? I think it to be important to at least know each other if we are going to be together for some time. Why not get to know each other a little bit?”

“I see no need to.”

“Why not? It is only a simple conversation that will bring you no harm.”

“It is not important for this mission, and therefore, I see no reason to indulge it.”

“Not everything has to be seen as important.”

“I’ve no interest in what you think to be important.”

Keith is doing the most to keep himself hidden from Shiro, doing what he can to stop any kind of information, no matter how small it may be, from reaching Shiro’s ears. Keith appears to be a private person, more so than any other person Shiro has met and he has met some very stubborn people and even some knights. It makes Shiro more interested in prying down deeper, beyond those feathers and inside that mask.

“That may be, but we are going to be together for the time being. I am only interested in knowing who you are.”

“You’re no hunter,” and, well, cutting straight to the point in way that seems to be uniquely Keith, “I see no reason to share anything with you. You’re going to be gone sooner or later and leave this place behind. What’s the point of knowing someone if they’re not coming back?”

“There are plenty of reasons to want to know someone, Keith.”

Keith stops in his tracks and forces Shiro to stop as well, angling his body toward Keith’s as the hunter crosses his arm. Shiro would assume that there is a narrowed look on Keith’s face, full of disbelief and mistrust but he can’t quite tell with that mask in the way. His fingers twitch, wanting to remove that mask so he can judge the emotions that cross the lithe hunter’s face.

He’d probably lose his hands before that happened.

“What’re those reasons? What could you possibly see as worthwhile in a person you’ll never see again? It is a pointless endeavor.”

Shiro can see the defensive rise in the other man, he can see the posture pulled into something defensive and coiled tight to protect itself. Shiro doesn’t know what’s happened in Keith’s past to create such an image the man follows, and it shows signs of a hunter working by themselves and without considering the help of another. Isn’t that dangerous in this kind of job, knowing that you can encounter large beasts (the scourge beast comes to mind) and that they may overwhelm you?

“You don’t need to isolate yourself from people, Keith. We all need companions in this world. There are good people out there, Keith, there is no need to keep people out.”

It sounds like Keith scoffs, or at lease he does to Shiro, but the mask muffles the sound. “I’m a hunter, Shiro, a hunter of beasts. This isn’t a place to be mingling with people and making friends. People die, Shiro, and there’s no point in knowing who they are if they’re just going to leave in death sooner than you think.”

Shiro thinks it over for a moment before he moves forward, taking a step but trying to make himself look as non-threatening. He thinks he sees Keith tense, but he can’t tell, not with the feathers the rustle lightly in the wind. He stops a smaller distance away, sure to make sure that Keith has enough space but enough that Shiro thinks his point will get across.

“It’s okay, Keith. It’s okay to be wary of losing a comrade, it’s okay to be scared that you will never know someone again, but that’s no reason to shut people out. Even the smallest act of kindness can go a long way. I understand—I was a once a knight and I, too, have seen the dark desires of man and the blood it yields, but to have a friend and comrade be understanding and offer you a shoulder, it goes a long way.”

Shiro has something else to say, more of a motivational speech and encouragement of Keith to open himself to others, and maybe he could understand what it is that makes the smaller man not want to let people close to him when his eyes drift from Keith for a moment and seeing a small movement from behind the corner. Before Shiro can look further into it, before he can further let his lungs produce the air he needs to speak his thoughts aloud, a bottle (how many bottles are just lying around Yharnam? It seems like people just toss their trash anywhere they please) that taps against the ground. It’s enough to draw their attention behind them to see what that is.

Around the corner that’s a small distance away, there isn’t anything there, and perhaps it was a bottle that was hazardously place in a position that was bound to make it fall eventually. Nothing steps out, nothing indicates there’s something there, and they both are about to breathe before a figure walks out from behind the wall, slow steps sounding, heavy, almost calculated.

At this, Shiro’s body locks up.

It snarls, breathing heavily as spit drips down its jaws as it shows off a mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth that have remnants of blood that stain them, and pieces of torn flesh are caught between them. Its eyes are unseeing, narrowed as it stares directly at them, zeroed in and knowing exactly what it wants. In its grasp is a separated leg, bitten off and leaking blood so heavily and telling of how fresh it was taken from its owner, claws gripping into the torn flesh and cloth. The beast looks at both of them before it roars, throwing away the leg before charging at both of them.

Both Keith and Shiro separate, dodging to the side in opposite directions as the beast uses its long legs to leap into the air before it brings up one arm to push its claws in front of it, slamming it down in the spot they both previously occupied, cracking the stones underneath it’s large hand. It spins around, dragging its claws along the ground as it repositions itself, hunched and tense as an unintelligible growl that makes its way past its mouth, its gaze looking back and forth between them as its deciding which one it wants to go after next. It stalks forward, looking between them, slow and meticulous before it moves back a smaller distance.

Shiro can see it confused over what it wants, which one of them will be the best contender for the chance to be between its teeth. Shiro can barely hear anything over the loud roar of blood that slams against the inside of his head in an attempt to motivate his muscles to do something. He’s at a disadvantage with having no weapon, no true means of defense with only his two hands (hand, the thinks) that hold no true threat against this beast. The claws it has are more than what Shiro could ever hold against it.

The sounds of Keith’s blade catch his attention and looks to the side, seeing Keith separating his blade into two is what makes him the prime target for this beast. It charges at him with a roar that echoes through the ex-knight’s body. Its jaw unhinges as a jagged teeth are on put on display and poised to grasp at his figure. Shiro steps back, ready to move out of the way before he sees Keith move out of the corner of his eye. He’s fast, legs moving quickly as he readies his blades in an upward position as his boots slam against the ground loud enough to stop the beast in its tracks.

It turns too late as Keith bends his upper body, shoulders arching as he gets in close range of the monster that has left itself open. Keith brings his elbow up to be parallel with the ground before he slashes at the beast’s side, blood flowing from the wound as Keith darts forward as the beast brings down its hand in an effort to catch Keith, who narrowly escapes. He puts some distance between the beast before he pivots on one foot and bends at the knee somewhat and pushes off. He’s unrelenting in his attack, fast-paced and at a point where the beast can’t keep up.

The monster roars, bringing down its arms and trying to swing at Keith, claws out that are trying to grab at him. It slashes through some of the feathers as Keith bends back far enough to avoid a swipe and dodging to the side to avoid another swipe. The beast stops and brings both arms above its head and brings them forward, hoping to slam them into Keith’s body as Keith runs forward, halting and spinning around to thrust both blades into the beast’s unprotected back. They pierce but Keith doesn’t waste time, twisting both blades before he retreats them, pushing back further as the beast falls to its knees, bringing out both arms to catch itself before it can crumble to the ground, letting out a hoarse gurgle of pain. It recovers quickly, jumping from its position and putting distance between it and Keith as it turns around, obviously trying to figure out what it’s going to do.

Keith is in a defensive stance, ready to attack again, blades dripping with blood.

Shiro feels useless, unable to help, knowing that Keith is in danger regardless of his skill with hunting beasts. He’s seen it too many time—knights that are too confident in their abilities and refusing to believe they need help and only find the end of their purpose at the end of a sharpened blade. Help is always needed regardless of a level of skill and expertise, and Shiro is a firm believer that any kind of help is welcome to ensure the future of fellow knight. No one is above needing help, they all will need it sometime in their life and there’s no shame in accepting someone’s generous offer of help.

There will be a time where Keith won’t be able to hold his own against a beast, when Keith has too many wounds on his body and too much blood lost and his vision unable to focus. One day, his skill won’t be enough to defend himself and escape with this life. Every warrior is going to face a time where they can’t defend themselves and it’s only a matter of time when that happens—it’s not an  _if_ like many of his knights would joke about, it’s only a matter of  _when_.

But it’s when he hears, “Shiro, get out of here!” does Shiro halt his thoughts and look at Keith who is still standing off against the beast.

“I’m not leaving you here!”

“You’ve no way to fight this beast! You’ll only endanger yourself!” With that, Keith charges forward, blades raised as the beast moves toward him. Keith stops in front of it and jumps back as the beast tries to attack, its wounds obviously slowing its movements, as it swipes at the empty space. Keith takes this moment to move forward, bringing one blade forward to attack its face. The blade grazes its face as it moves back, a yowl from its mouth as it seems to reconsider its approach. But before it can move back fully, Keith brings his other arm forward to slash at one of its arms, blood following the blade’s path as it makes contact.

It snarls, nails digging into the ground, lips twitching over its teeth as it tries to stare Keith down, hunched and ready to strike.

There’s sweat that eats at Shiro’s hairline, trying to come up with a way to help Keith, not wanting to watch him take on this beast by himself, not while Shiro himself is capable of doing something. Any move that Keith makes could result in him getting injured or something worse. The ex-knight knows he should have more faith in Keith, he should know that Keith can hold his own in fight against a monster and that Keith has been doing this for quite some time, but there’s still something about this that inspires fear that this can go wrong. There’s always a chance something can go wrong, and it doesn’t matter how well something has been planned, there is still some kind of unknown factor that wasn’t planned for that can happen and undo all the precarious planning that went into something.

It’s the overconfidence that can lead to an end that could have been avoided.

A sound passes through Shiro’s ears that he doesn’t recognize that forces him to pause. It’s vaguely familiar but Shiro hasn’t heard it before. It feels familiar in a sense that Shiro can’t point out, but he can’t do with any distractions while Keith is risking his life to keep Shiro safe. Shiro’s hands clench, sweat slicking his flesh hand’s palm, fingers shaky as he tries to swallow down his heart from trying to push up through his throat. He has to do something, he has to help Keith in some way, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

That sounds happens again but it’s louder, sharper, and it has a pull that Shiro is briefly drawn to again.

The beast runs toward Keith again, arms raised, claws out as it rears one arm back to swing toward Keith who runs at the beast before he bends his knees and ducks as he pivots on his foot to face the beast that tries to track his movements but not before Keith thrusts out another blade and buries it into its side and taking it back as he jumps back but this doesn’t stop the beast. It leaps forward with Keith’s retreat and jumps at him. It chases him with claws outstretched and brings out one arm to make an attack.

Out of some blessing of luck, Keith lets himself drop and the force of the beast launches it past Keith. It would work and keep the hunter out of the beat’s way, but it takes this into stride, turning around and reaching out again. Shiro’s voice leaves him before he can think of anything to say, his body jerking forward as the beast’s claws try to grasp at Keith’s shoulder, claws ripping through the feathers as Keith tries to move out of the way. It connects, tearing into his clothes and ripping into flesh. Blood runs hot from the wound as the claws leave Keith’s shoulder as Keith moves forward and out of the beast’s reach. Keith rolls away and puts enough distance between them but not without escaping injury free.

Shiro’s eyes are wide, his teeth are clenched, as he sees the injured man stagger before regaining his footing. The beast stops, sniffing the air before settling on its hand. It’s sniffs at its claws before its eyes land on Keith and Shiro can swear its bloodlust has grown now that it has a scent for where the freshly-spilled blood is coming from. It knows what it wants, and sweet stench of blood is irresistible to a beast.

Even with injuries, even with the bleakest end that a beast will face, the scent of blood will always attract a beast.

_“Beasts love the scent of the pungent blood no matter what it belongs to.”_

With that shoulder injury, Shiro knows Keith is going to be severely limited in his abilities to defend and attack, and Shiro can’t let that happen. He has to do something, he needs to move and stop this—

Another roar in his ears, sharper and purposed, and Shiro feels that thing inside him  _writhe_ and thrash, the very thing that has scared Shiro since he gained consciousness in Shay’s clinic mere days ago, that rears up through his body and calls to him. Shiro’s eyes widen as it seems to be reacting to him, moving through him and lighting his nerves and heightening his body. It’s the fear of what is going to happen to Keith that stops him from rejecting this feeling and his senses crumbling in fear of not knowing what is happening to his body. Shiro stares down at his arm because it seems as though this is where the feeling is coming from. Shiro is focused on his arm so much that he nearly misses the beast charging at Keith, who in turns raises his blades despite the injury and steps back, readying his stance as the beast raises an arm to strike out.

Keith ducks the arm and thrusts his blades out and makes contact with the beast but not before its able to slide its claws along the mask, but Keith pushes himself forward and behind the beast, having to dodge to the side as the beast whirls around and swinging. Keith moves forward and behind the beast and drags a blade along its ribs. It lets out a pained snarl and tries to retaliate.

Shiro looks back down at his arm, trying to figure out why it seems to be reacting to him now of all times. He has other things to be focusing on, he has to help Keith with all he can cause Keith is injured and there’s something he has to do to make sure that Keith doesn’t get anymore injured. His arm pulses this time and Shiro’s eyes widen, ash eyes staring disbelievingly at the metal. It pulses again and Shiro can feel something unhinge in his mind as a low, dull noise becomes detailed and bursts with vibrant colors as his mind whites out.

He doesn’t know how he does it. One moment he’s standing there, looking at his arm, not understanding it to running across the space between him and Keith, his arm raises as its poised and reaches out toward Keith. It’s a little hazy in the way Shiro thinks he will remember it, but maybe, just maybe, Shiro’s arm takes on this white-blue color. The beast was so focused on trying to sink its claws into Keith and delayed by the injuries its sustained that it notices too late. Shiro is behind Keith and he doesn’t notice anything other than this need that’s driving him to protect Keith, this force that moves his body and results in his thrusting his hand up and—

Blood sprays violently into his face as his hand pierces through the beast’s chest, sliding through flesh and bone as though it’s water to him as the beast chokes. Shiro rips his arm from the beast chest before his hand becomes knife-like and makes a diagonal slash, his hand still a glowing white-blue color even though smeared with blood, and slices through the beast’s chest, making a clean, near resistant free cut that separates its upper body from its torso. Blood erupts from the exposed flesh as its knees collapse, jets of blood following.

The roar in his ears is the only thing Shiro is cognizant of, not seeing how he just cut through this beast as though his hand were created from the finest butcher’s knife.

His eyes stare at the beast on the ground as blood flows from its separated flesh, intestines spilled across the ground covered in warm blood.

The ex-knight is slowly coming back to himself, the adrenaline coursing through his body wearing off as he truly takes in what happened, bringing his arm up in front of him to stare at it, not understanding the glow of it as he looks at the blood covering it.

He just killed a beast with his arm.

This arm that can tap into some kind of magic.

Magic that came from  _inside_ him.

Perhaps this is what Pidge was talking about.

Shiro straightens up, his mind still lagging behind the events past, and turns around to look at Keith. He’s clutching his shoulder, one blade on the ground as the other is clenched by his hand belonging to the injured shoulder. His back is hunched as his shoulders are moving more erratically than they normally would that’s the only sign of Keith being in pain. He looks at the ruined feathers that are soaking slick with blood from Keith’s shoulder as his eyes look at the gauges those claws left behind, distantly recognizing that the mask stopped Keith’s face from being injured.

Shiro steps forward slowly, closing the distance but leaving enough to let Keith maintain that wall of personal space. Shiro doesn’t know how the other man will react, if he will react, and Shiro himself isn’t sure how to react.

“We have to go to reach Allura’s location. We don’t have much of a choice now.”

It’s reasonable, Shiro knows, and they have to keep going, but he doesn’t know how long they have until they reach her.

“How,” and Shiro swallows, his body still trying to understand how he should be, “how much further are we?”

Keith doesn’t answer for a moment, but his voice is more strained when he answers, “it’s not much long now.”

That shoulder injury looks serious and Shiro voices his concerns with, “we should find a doctor and have this looked at—”

“We can do this when we’ve reached Allura.”

Despite Keith’s stiff movements, he still trudges forward and there isn’t going to be anything that stops him. Shiro can admire that drive to keep going, but it’s only going to cause Keith more pain and unnecessary aggravation to his injury.

“Keith, you need to find a doctor—”

“Shiro,” his voice is strained but stubborn, “this is not the first injury I’ve sustained since I became a hunter. This won’t be the last time. We are close to Allura, we need to keep going.”

Before Shiro can continue to press Keith about his injuries, Keith reaches one hand into his pocket and produces a small vial, red and corked, taking it into his and as he uses his fingers to reach up and undo the clasps to his mask, letting it fall to expose his face. Shiro watches in silence as Keith bites the cork and lets it drop. He tips his head back as he swallows the contents of the bottle. Shiro becomes alarmed, body reacting when he sees a red mist bloom around him before it’s gone. He shudders as Shiro can guess the taste isn’t any good but Keith’s standing taller and without that shake of his muscles.

Shiro is dumbfounded.

Keith rolls his injured shoulder and throws the empty vial somewhere less important as he brings that hand up to grasp at his shoulder as he continues to roll it. He exhales, grunting for a moment before he settles back down.

How—

“What did you do?”

Keith eyes him before he roots through his pocket and produces three of those vials, all filled with the same thick red liquid. They don’t look like much, but their small appearances are deceiving.

“Remember when Pidge told you about Yharnam’s obsession with blood? This is one of them.”

Shiro’s eyes dart back to Keith’s face as questions burn against his tongue.

“This is mostly used by hunters. This is a blood vial that contains healing blood. It’s a product of the Healing Church, when they were experimenting with blood ministrations.”

Shiro reaches for one of them, taking one into his hand and turning it over to look at it. It’s small, that much is clear, kept sealed by a cork, and watches the blood inside swirl around.

“It’s a healing blood as you can see. It can heal injuries and sickness and has become an invaluable item for the hunters. It doesn’t always prevent scars from injuries, but it is enough.”

Shiro gives it back to Keith.

“Yharnam does have a heavy past with blood. It was at the point that blood was used for everything, even replacing drinks at bars and sold in foods. This is one of the few good things that’ve come out of that.”

With that, Keith pockets the remaining blood vials and bending over to reach for his previously discarded mask.

“That was a beast-possessed soul that you killed, Shiro.”

Oh, right, he really did kill a beast with his own hands.

“Beast-possessed… soul?”

“They show their faces here but don’t make it a habit to.”

Shiro watches as Keith inspects his mask, eyes roaming over it, and Shiro takes a moment to study Keith’s face. He inspects the paleness of Keith’s skin, sweat that’s drying against his hairline but still slick enough to be highlighted by the late morning sun that slowly loosens its hold on the hair that hangs in front of his face. His bangs are mused, the long pieces hanging over his ears messy and barely grazing along his shoulders are tangled. Those violet eyes, so different than what Shiro has ever seen, are narrowed as he takes in the damage of the mask, eyes roving over the mask and probably contemplating the best way to repair and restore it to its former state.

The small opening he’s given to study Keith up close and all those little unique details Shiro wants to immerse himself in are gone faster than what he’d like to admit, but Keith reattaches the mask to his face and signals the end of this small glimpse. The gouges are on display and reminding Shiro how close Keith came to losing his life and it makes Shiro uncomfortable to know this.

The hunter straightens himself out and adjusts his mask before he reaches back into his pocket, pulling out a blood vial and handing it to Shiro.

“Here.”

There’s hesitance in Shiro’s movements as he takes the blood vial, watching as the blood sloshes inside with the movement of his hand and looking back at the shorter man.

“It’s not much but it’ll help you. And,” and hesitates as though he’s not quite sure what to do and this does not escape Shiro’s notice. He’s curious as Keith has done nothing but express a calculated confidence and precise accuracy in what he does, but Keith shifts before, “you have my thanks, for saving my life. That wasn’t necessary of you, and it was reckless, but I… I wouldn’t be here without you.”

The shifting in the shorter man’s stance, his fingers twitching, the way Keith seems to hunch and look away is…

It’s adorable.

Shiro responds in kind with a soft smile.

“It is my pleasure.”

Shiro wishes he could see the look on Keith’s face when he was speaking. Once again, the mask is such a nuisance.

“We should be off now,” and Keith picks up their journey where it had left off.

Shiro follows shortly after.

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s mid-afternoon sun that casts its warmth along Shiro’s back when he and Keith finally arrive at Allura’s home.

It’s not exactly a hulking castle, not in the sense that Shiro is used to with large fixtures of glass ornaments that hang so regally from tall, elegant ceilings, or wine-red carpets with the finest grooming that are outlined with gold trimming along the edges—none of the aesthetics that speak of indulgence that Cainhurst enjoyed and thoroughly exploited.

It is still a large house, with a rich, dark color that lingers on the outside. There are statues carved with fine details and sculpted with the finest attention to rival some of the more glorious pieces that sat in Cainhurt’s gardens. There are flowers planted that line the outside of the house, with vibrant colors and arranged to draw the eye. Shiro looks at the heavy-set double door, an obvious rich mahogany-color and thickly-cut wood, heavy in its appearance, with a lion’s head doorknocker that Shiro suspects is made from rich iron, that draws his hand to touch along the details.

Keith takes the first step, pushing open the tall gate that separates them and Shiro takes a moment to look at the iron bars, seeing carvings and shapes of vines and leaves that are etched into the bars. He studies them, looking at the curving features and how natural they seem to be. Shiro vaguely thinks about how he’d like to know the person who sculpted such a piece—using metal no less and knowing how difficult it can be to shape things with it—but Shiro doesn’t linger too long, knowing that there’s not a lot of time for him to do so.

They walk along a paved cement path that’s lined with flowers, a row of semi-large rocks set in between the flowers and the path as more statures continue to line the outside of the flowers, each a small distance from each other. It’s not as grand as the gardens Shiro was used to, but it has a soothing affect that helps to relax his body. It helps to distract him from the power that continues to saturate his soul in ways Shiro hasn’t grasped.

They make their way up stairs that are well maintained, smoothened of any outside wear, and Keith takes the metal doorknocker in hand. It echoes loudly, disturbing the quiet that had settled over them before it forces its way back.

It takes a few moments before, “hello? To what do we owe this honor of a visit?” comes through the door, muffled and somewhat garbled.

“It’s Keith, I’ve come to seek help.”

“Oh? The mighty Crow asking for help? Quite a story you have there, lad. You must tell Allura about it.”

There’s a click, the sound of locks sliding out of place before the door begins to open, creaking on its hinges as it gradually reveals a face behind it.

It’s a man, with vibrant tangerine hair that’s slicked back in a neat fashion that has a lock of hair that curls over and onto his forehead. His face is angular with blunted edges and aged, lined with years of experience and knowing, that speaks of a wisdom imparted only through learned lessons. Sky-colored eyes gaze back at the ex-knight, and Shiro would comment but he’s drawn to the two light blue triangle-like markings on the man’s face. They’re peculiar and he wonders if it’s some kind of clan thing.

“Ah, yes, do come in. It’s nice to see you pay a visit, Keith. You don’t do it enough.” The man ushers them in, stepping to the side as he opens the door, creaking heavily as it opens. The man greets Keith, a jubilant look on his face before his eyes turn on Shiro, a more curious look on his face.

“Oh, Keith, I had no idea you had taken a partner. Did you finally decide that company was a safer option?”

“I’m here only to help this man.”

“Get yourself in a twist?”

Keith casts a glance at the man, pausing before walking, “something like that.”

The man chuckles and turns back to Shiro and offers a gloved hand.

“My name is Coran, and I am the keeper of this place. Welcome to House Altea.”

There’s a kind of vague recognition in that name in a way Shiro doesn’t know how to peruse but he takes the hand with a warm, friendly smile. Coran steps aside, allowing Shiro to move into the house, continuing with, “you must be a very special person for Keith go out of his way to help you. He doesn’t like to socialize, that one, and we’re always telling him he needs to let himself rely on others. But what does he do? The exact opposite! I swear, that boy’s going to get himself into a place he can’t get out of!”

The inside is richer in colors, from deep reds and browns, to lighter hues of blues and greens It’s well maintained, with polished glass chandeliers and stained glass in some areas that are meant to catch the sunlight from large, spotless windows that casts a colorful hue along the walls. Coran walks in front of him, along the soft, plush carpet that lays on top of polished wood, one that Shiro doesn’t know what kind, but he can tell it’s an expensive kind of wood that only someone of a royal status would be able to afford. He’s been in enough castles and homes while on campaigns for Cainhurst to know this when he sees it.

Shiro looks up to see a large, rectangular cut out piece of the ceiling, with iron bars that lie below a glass fitting that allows more sunlight into the area. The bars must have designs on them as he can see uneven areas in the bars, with what looks to be metal flowers that are shaped with the metal at the base of each bar, giving it a kind of metal garden look. There are more of these fixtures that travel down the hallway, giving the area a more spacious look. It’s a light trick that many people among a prosperous position use to make their space seem larger than what it is; it helps them believe they have more important things than what they currently possess.

More statues line the walls of the hallway, some of what Shiro would suppose are of kings and queens, each placed in front of a painting that hangs high on the walls, each with gold trimming lining them. There are depictions of landscapes, of people, but there is a common variable: there is a man, tall and regal, with snow-colored hair, skin that resembles the color of coffee, with kind eyes that are always calm and collected. Shio notices a lot of these paintings and it shows that this family has enough money to commission so many paintings. Oil paintings are more expensive and there is a plenty amount of them.

Shiro also notices that there are electrical lights that replace some of the candle stands that light the hallway. Shiro has seen electricity and heard of people boasting how it will be the future. The ex-knight never paid much attention to it but he’s not a heavy believer in it, not when fire is easily accessible and easier to handle and maintain rather than this invention that needs more work to create and maintain. It’s too new of an idea for Shiro to really want to see and use it, and he’s perfectly fine with a lamp that can easily be carried and transported than this thing that has a new set of requirements to be transported.

“Allura should be in her study. I’m sure she will be interested in what you have to offer her.”

Keith is standing off to the side in the hallway further down, arms crossed but his stance is relaxed. He hasn’t taken off his mask off yet which is a shame, Shiro thinks, as he’s still fully dressed in hunting gear. It strikes an imposing figure if Shiro hadn’t known who this man was and would put him on somewhat of a defensive edge in just in case for something to happen. Shiro wouldn’t say he’d be wary, but he has enough to respect a formidable warrior and having honor for someone’s potential to be a powerful figure. He would consider it an honor to clash blades with Keith if he were in another situation where they were not on common ground.

“Allura will be happy to know you’ve paid a visit. Please do come around more often than not, Keith, you know you’re always welcome in House Altea.”

Keith doesn’t answer, but Shiro is slowly learning what kind of silences that Keith gives to understand the moo that he is projecting. It’s taking time, and maybe Shiro has a better chance because he is familiar with a warrior’s silence and what all it can mean and what it’s supposed to mean. He can agree that a silence like that will throw people off and make it so that no one will want to interact with them, which Shiro supposes is the entire point seeing that Keith is so very reluctant to allow himself to be open with people. He can recognize the reluctance to trust and the suspicion of people around him when it comes from a place that has experienced much bloodshed and a hefty weight in their past that leads to such mistrust among his surroundings.

The ex-knight would like to know about that, to take it in his hands and give proper comfort to all those soft and vulnerable pieces that Keith keeps ushered away from the light of day.

He’d honor that very trust if he was to receive that someday.

The trio continues to walk toward a set of stairs that push beneath the floor and to what Shiro would assume is an even more grand scheme of elaborate riches on display. He’s no fan of how much wealthy families like to put their money and power on display, and no family ever truly escapes the need to show off their place in society.

The second floor is just as lavish and lit with a cross between candles and electrical fixtures that casts a soft glow along the halls. They continue to the end of the hallway and to a large, heavy set of twin doors that’s decorated with gold-platted handles that gleams in the soft lighting. Just as Coran is about to open it, the door shifts back, creaking open in a slow, controlled motion that reveals the face of a young woman. Before Shiro can ask if this is Allura, Coran moves forward and casts a bow and a friendly greeting.

“Hello, Luka, is Allura in there?”

The door moves back more and the woman, Luka, steps out, casting Coran a calm look.

“Yes, she was just finishing one of her studies.”

“Is she proper? We don’t want another time of coming up on her in that kind of state.”

It could be a trick of the light, perhaps highlighted by the paleness of her skin, but she seems to bristle a little. “No, I don’t believe that will happen again.”

The woman, named Luka, has the same triangle markings on her face that stand out from the paleness of her skin. Her features are sharp, her face of accentuated angles and edged planes. Her eyes are aware, calculating, and Shiro can see an intelligence behind, a kind of cunning that shows of knowledge. Her hair is long, soft with pink, that cascades down her shoulders and back. Her frame may be petite, wrapped in fine silks and dressed for a proper family with enough wealth to afford it, but there always the deceit of looks that is meant to mislead and lower a person’s defenses.

She looks at Keith, her eyes holding a recognition before looking at Shiro. It’s brief but there’s a narrowing of her eyes, studying him. “Who is this?” she inquires, not holding back the suspicion in her voice.

Shiro doesn’t bristle, only smiles and holds out his hand, “my name is Shiro, and I am here with Keith.”

Surprise crosses her eyes (geez, Keith must really be known for his lack of human companionship) and she turns to Coran. “This is in jest, surely?”

“I’m afraid not, my dear, it is as real as it is.”

“I’m right here, and I can hear both of you,” is muffled through Keith’s mask but it’s vaguely annoyed from him.

“Keith, you never pay visits here with companions, of course we are interested in what this interest is,” is in a tone that speaks how obvious the reason behind the interest should be, and Luka turns back to Coran, answering, “I am not imagining anything, he is here in the company of another, right?”

“Yes, I, too, am having a hard time coming to terms with this.”

“Alright, where is Allura? We have other things that need attention instead of this.”

The woman only looks at Keith, studying him before she relents, stepping out of the door’s entry and stepping aside. “Don’t think this to be the end of what I have lain my eyes on, I will be back to talk about this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it being any other way,” is more monotone and not serious about it from Keith.

Luka steps aside, giving Keith a last look that he doesn’t pay attention to, before she moves and steps out of their path. Before she leaves, Coran turns to her and, “Luka, it was nice seeing you, I haven’t seen you all day, but I hope you are in good health.”

“Tell that to Romelle, under the weather because she refused to head warning swimming in a cold lake.”

“Ah, yes, that one is quite persistent in her beliefs to know better.”

Luka’s footsteps become muted the further she walks away until she’s no longer visible. “Yes, well, let’s go on,” and with that, Coran leads them inside the room.

It’s a library, not as large as the spaced room in Cainhurst, but it is sizeable enough for such a large home. There’s a fireplace that is homing a fire that kindles along a few blocks of wood, sectioned off with a stone gate. Shiro looks around the room, looking at the small displays of trinkets inside their glass holdings, objects of a hefty price no less, as well as more lavish paintings along the walls not occupied by book cases lined with books. There is a considerable amount of knowledge in this room and much of its old judging by the wear on some of the leather-bound books he sees on some of the shelves he passes by.

It takes some navigating through the books to come upon a decently-sized table of another expensive wood that, no doubt, the more affluent like to favor for its long-lasting quality, thick sturdiness and lighter brown color. A woman sits in one of the chairs, bent over an open book, and Shiro takes a look at her features as they approach the table.

She has the same alabaster-colored hair as the man he’s seen in many of the paintings around the house. Her skin is also the same rich mahogany color as it’s long and thick and with wavy curls that cascades along her back and shoulders with her bangs pulled out of her face and tied to the back of her head. Her face is soft, rounded and with curves and serene. Cobalt eyes are lined with white lashes with a set of the same triangles under her eyes that are pink in color. It’s nagging at the long-haired man’s mind, nibbling but not too annoying to the point of him being unable to ignore it.

“Allura, Keith’s come to pay a visit.”

The sound of Coran’s voice shifts her position as she looks up, eyes seeking out Keith as she smiles, wide and exuberant, as her expression is openly relieved. “Oh, Keith, it’s so wonderful to see you. This is a surprise to see you here but not unwelcome.”

Allura stands up, moving the chair delicately across the floor as she orients herself. “To what do we owe the pleasure of you visiting us? Normally I hear it from Lance and Hunk when you’re in town a great deal before you make a visit here.”

Keith shifts a little before, “I’m here because we need some answers.”

“Anything you need help with. Oh, and Keith, you’re safe inside my home, there is no need to wear that silly mask inside.”

Keith doesn’t seem to acknowledge that, and Coran chimes in with, “it is one of the safest houses, Keith. You know how well Allura is in arcane magic and safeguarding this place.”

Oh, right, he did forget that Allura is an expert at magic.

There’s a sigh from Keith before he reaches up with his hands to take off his mask, taking his time to remove it carefully and pitching forward to place the mask on the table. Shiro can’t say he doesn’t look at Keith’s face with an open stare, and he can’t say that he doesn’t try to drink in his fill of seeing Keith’s face as he’s continuously cut off from looking at the other man’s face. It’s a nice thing to look at, Shiro admits, completely honest with himself in the low-level attraction he has for Keith that kindles. It’s not too strong, just enough to let him know that he finds Keith desirable, but it’s low enough that it can just be a background noise to that can easily be ignored.

“I’ve come because there’s a few questions we have regarding Shiro,” and Allura’s eyes turn toward him with a hint of curiosity, openly studying him before turning back to Keith.

“Questions?”

“It’s better if Shiro explained it.”

Shiro shifts and tries to swallow down the coalescence of nervousness that begins in his throat, now unsure about explaining this entity that even he doesn’t fully understand himself. He’s also unsure of inviting himself to dwell on the feeling this arm gives him, the uneasiness he has about its presence, the unknown it brings with it that Shiro can’t tell is of anything good. He’s done all he can to not have to dwell upon this, to think about the very thing that his body seems to harbor and opening himself up to allow all his thoughts to spill forth to only increase the amount of uncertainty and fear he has about his arm and what it means isn’t a prospect Shiro wants to let happen, but he doesn’t really have a chance. If he wants to fix this, figure out what’s happening to him, Shiro needs to do this.

Shiro inhales, trying to clear his mind, and he answers, beginning the lengthy journey of trying to sort through his feelings and thoughts about this.

“My name is Shiro, I come from Cainhurst—”

“Cainhurst? Why are you so far from there?”

“You know of castle Cainhurst?”

“Indeed, I do,” and Allura tilts her head down as a hand comes up to grasp at it, “my father, Alfor, knew of some of the people who defected from the Healing Church to seek Cainhurst’s blood techniques. He also knew of Honerva, the queen of Cainhurst. They say that she went mad with trying to look deeper into what blood can do, furthering the Healing Church’s research in ways that the Church rejected and condemned.”

Allura is certainly knowledgeable.

“I do come from Cainhurst, that much is true. However, Cainhurst is no more.”

“No more?”

“I don’t know how long it’s been, but Cainhurst was attacked by a group called the Executioners. They are a group that has always despised Cainhurst and the Vilebloods. They are a more radical group that’s apart of the Church. They killed every person in Cainhurst with no prejudice.”

Allura’s entire being becomes somber, her eyes filling with sorrow. Coran, from Shiro’s side, shifts and looks away, his voice soft with, “I’m sorry, my boy, that you had to experience that. Our deepest condolences.”

“How,” and Allura holds herself back, regathering herself as she tries with, “how did you manage to escape? I would assume the Executioners spared no one of their blades.”

“To be truthful, I don’t know why I was spared. I had nearly fallen in battle and had escaped the castle wounded.  I was a fool to believe that I could go somewhere with my injuries and recover enough to come back to the castle, but my wounds had made me slow, weak, and unable to defend myself. I paid with my arm and nearly my life.”

He can feel their eyes searching his frame and looking for the loss of his limb. It raises his hackles, but he chooses to not comment on it.

“I was set to die, bleeding out from my injuries. I couldn’t do anything, there was nothing I could do to stop from dying. As I lied there, coming to terms with my fate, one of the Executioners had found me. He said his name was Sendak.”

“Sendak?” and there’s a kind of alarm in Allura’s voice. Coran isn’t doing any better when he catches Shiro’s attention with, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You said that Sendak found you? The very same brute known for his rather extreme tactics in the Church?”

This intrigues Shiro as much as it stirs a heavy weight in his stomach.

Allura steps forward with her voice, sharpening as she explains, “Sendak is an infamous hunter in the Church. The Healing Church has its own group of hunters at its disposal. They claim they’re here to help protect the Healing Church and focused on eliminating beasts that cannot be healed and saved.”

“But Sendak himself is one of the more vile members. His reputation proceeds him as one of the more drastic ones that even other hunters are wary of,” is severe from Coran.

“Please, continue, Shiro.”

He clears his throat as he shifts, trying in vain to make himself feel some kind of relief. “Sendak did not allow me to die there and instead, he said that I could still be beneficial to the Church, to the Galra. I know not of what he meant when he said that, but I became his captive. I don’t remember very much of what happened to me and I don’t know what they were planning, and perhaps it is a good thing because I do get memories coming to me that speaks of something dark. I get this sense of fear, an unease that I can’t reconcile with anything I remember experiencing.”

Shiro chances a glance at Keith, looking to see if Keith may know something or if his reaction to anything Shiro is speaking may trigger something that can be used. Keith’s face is concentrated as his eyes are closed, chin titled down, leaning against the nearest wall next to a tall bookshelf. He’s not as open as the others, but Shiro thinks he sees a furrow of Keith’s brow, the twitch of his fingers, all signs of Keith thinking this over and Shiro can at least find comfort in Keith listening to him.

“My memory goes as far back as a few days ago when I awoke in a clinic, unsure where I was and panicked. I’ve no idea how much time passed between my capture and when I woke up, but there is a considerable amount of time based on the scars I gained, as well as this.”

With that, Shiro takes a deep breath before he raises his left arm. Time slows to a leisure drip as Shiro watches himself raise his arm, feeling like an outsider looking into a windowpane to watch the events unfold. His arm is poised, fingers clenched before allowing the tension to release and relax them. He can feel everyone’s attention on him that comes close to a physical touch, even glancing to see Keith looking at him, as he reaches to remove the glove on his hand, sliding it off slowly as he notes this kind of muted sensation that’s being fed to his mind that vaguely resembles like his hand is actually real, that his own fingers are flesh and blood again. It feels like it’s real, it feels like his hand is just numb, but he knows from the very real sensation of something that’s existing inside his body that constantly reminds him that none of this should be real.

Shiro pushes his fingers underneath the cuff of his sleeve and pulls it back, revealing the intricate metal arm that is grafted to his soul.

“Oh my.”

It’s the sound of Allura’s voice that sounds so far off somewhere in the back of his mind that barely phases him, not when he’s once again looking at the very thing that signifies his loss in such a visceral way that Shiro can’t help but feel the weight of it so heavily within his chest. The arm is a symbol of all that he’s lost that is now carried on his body, never allowing him to forget what has happened to him.

He flexes the fingers, creating a loosely held fist before they unravel, and his palm turns toward the ceiling. “This arm was what the Galra had given me in the place of losing my arm. I don’t know why they gave it to me, or why I was deemed worthy of it. There’s something about it that’s not a regular piece of mechanical engineering. I can move it like a normal arm, and just mere hours ago, I found it to have magical abilities.”

“That arm has some kind of magic in it,” comes Keith’s voice, almost startling Shiro, “it activated something and allowed him to kill a beast-possessed soul with that arm alone and with no weapon. We came so you could have a look at what that arm could possibly be.”

Allura takes cautious but inquisitive steps toward him, her eyes fastened to his arm. When she’s placed in front of his presence, she begins to lift her arms but stops, hesitating before she looks at him, her own blue eyes searching his own, her voice soft with, “Shiro, may I examine your arm closer?”

He’s not sure if he should let  _anyone_ should be allowed to touch his arm, his own self included, but Allura has this genuine concern in her eyes that Shiro finds himself comforted by. Down inside his chest and behind his ribs sits an emotion that has so much relief in it that springs forth because of how long it’s been since he’s experienced a gentle kindness for his person that it wants to overwhelm him. He is grateful for Keith, he really is, and he can‘t begin to thank Keith enough, but the different kind of care that Allura imparts on him is like a balm on his injured skin.

He’s seen the kindness of strangers go so far and so long for people who haven’t seen the gentle side of a hand and not something seeking their body with ill intentions and the need to feel their fingers glide through their blood. Even a small amount of kindness, intentions that are meant to cause healing even in the smallest of ways, has proven to be one of the most sought-after things in a man’s world when it’s wrought with continuous death and suffering.

It’s little things that help to pass everything along.

Shiro nods, unable to bring an answer to his lips in fear of all these other little things that want the chance to become something outside his mouth. Allura stares at him, her eyes searching him, looking for what he assumes is hesitance and if he’s truly uncomfortable, but she makes no mention of anything she sees in his eyes. With a steadying breath, the dark-skinned woman raises her hands, slender fingers reaching to take hold of his palm, bending his hand at the wrist—socket, it’s a _socket_ , not a wrist—as she brings both of her thumbs together at the center of his upper palm. It’s a muted sensation again like a touch through many layers of clothes, one that Shiro finds himself floored at every time it happens.

Allura’s eyes trace over the runes that are woven along his hand, along the writing that’s there that he still doesn’t understand, taking all of it in. Allura slowly lets go of his hand and stepping back, looking at him and telling him, “Shiro, please do sit down, I feel it to be more comfortable for you and for me to study this that way.”

She takes a step back from him and turns around to head back to her table. Shiro stands there, his arm having lowered moments previously, and it isn’t until he hears Coran, “go on, lad, Allura knows what she’s doing. You’re in good hands,” say softly and meant to help motivate him. It’s with cautious steps does Shiro let himself approach the table.

Whatever this is going to amount to, Shiro is going to get through this, he’s going to heal no matter how hard it’s going to be.

When he’s finally seated, next to Allura, she reaches out and takes his arm, pulling it to place it on the table and she lays her hands on the arm, her fingers touching near where the elbow would be, her fingers relaxed and loose, as she drags one hand down the arm, the feeling of it like this far away detail that’s too indistinct to know, as her fingers stop at where his wrist is. The hand at his elbow moves and curves under the appendage and tries to lift it, straining a little as the weight of the arm is obviously more than what she expected, and raises the arm but sets it back down, deciding it’s too heavy to keep it lifted.

It takes moments before she breathes, her voice strained but awed, “I’ve not yet seen these kinds of detailed runes. The level of care that forged this goes well beyond a basic beginner’s attempts. This is someone’s craft that was looking into harvesting power and wielding it with a greater intention.”

It’s an answer but yet, not an answer.

“I can see that,” and Allura moves her hand to settle along one of the runes, “some of these runes are more complicated than the average one. A lot of them seem to be seals to keep power at bay. I can also sense that the arcane magic used here is very old and not normal arcane magic used by the average hunter or the Healing Church.”

She looks up from the arm, at him, “how someone was able to create such a piece with this kind of level of magic and detail speaks of someone delving into something forbidden, something old and powerful, as I can also sense a very great magic, so much more than what a mere human can create.”

Allura looks back down, a hand settling over his forearm. “I can feel something in this arm, a kind of magic that I’ve never felt before. It feels different than what I’m used to feeling, and it has something about it that I can’t quite place, but it speaks of something greater than what I can understand.” Allura takes her hand away, settling them in her lap as she leans back, looking directly at him. “Whoever gave you this arm, whoever created it, was dealing in magic that was far greater than what they realized. It has magic in it that is not created by human means.”

There’s dread that forms black and thick in his stomach that begins to slowly shake his core. He doesn’t want to think about that, he doesn’t think he wants to know, but Shiro has come so far, he can’t let himself back down. He was a knight, a fearsome and brave and headstrong knight, and it’s about time that he begins to act like that again.

He’s lost so much already, and what’s left of his shredded dignity can be recovered, it can be mended and rebuilt, and it’s something Shiro has decided to make his goal.

But still, there’s nothing like hearing about something attached to your body that’s possibly not even human.

“What do you mean,” Shiro swallows, his throat wanting to dry itself of moisture suddenly, “it’s not created by human means?”

Allura sighs, head tipping forward as her arms cross in front of her. “It’s… difficult to describe, especially to one that doesn’t understand the energy that magic gives off. Arcane magic has many signatures, it has different feelings, and my family has specialized for centuries in knowing arcane magic and how to recognize it. I’ve studied many forms of magic, some due to my upbringing, some for more… different activities,” and Shiro can swear there’s a light flush on her features but he doesn’t comment, “but nonetheless, my family—my father, his father, and going back so long, it has been our duty to know arcane magic.”

“Allura is from a long line of people that is naturally in tune with magic. Her people called it alchemy once upon a time,” Coran chimes in, his voice in a very matter of fact quality.

“My people, as you can say, are very sensitive to magic and can read their signatures. Magic has so many unique, different qualities to them. But what you have in this arm, as well as many runes that are old and speak of many different things, is far different than what I’ve come across. It feels ancient and complex in a way I don’t know how to describe. It feels like—” Allura hesitate, “—it feels like I’m making contact with something far beyond what I know.”

“Allura,” comes seriously from Coran, who has stepped to Allura’s side, “are you suggesting that…”

“Indeed, I am, Coran.”

“There is no way that the Healing Church would go that far.”

The ex-knight isn’t about o let himself be in the dark, scooting forward with, “Allura… please, I would like to know what it is you have.”

“Shiro, this may not be easy—”

“Allura, please.”

There’s hesitation in those cerulean eyes, holding his stare and finally relents.

“Your arm has been touched by a Great One.”

Great… One? They sound familiar in a sense that Shiro has probably come across them in one of the many readings in Cainhurst when he found himself with too much time on his hands. His mind tends to grow curious in times of boredom.

“Great Ones are very powerful beings. Many have called them Gods because of their divine power and ability to exist among many dimensions. There were scholars at the Healing Church that came across these beings in their research of the Old Blood found in the forbidden underground labyrinths. My father had talked about missions to find more of it, to understand why it had such great power to it. In doing so, the Healing Church became greedy to know what it could do, what kind of power it held, and according to my father, had brought much of it back.”

Shiro is vaguely aware of the Old Blood, its origin pertaining to being spilled from a Great One, knowing he’s come across is somewhere in his studies on leisure afternoon, but what Allura speaks of is much more detailed than what he knows. He doesn’t quite understand what the Old Blood is or enough about Yharnam’s history to know it specifically, but he does know of obsession, of foolish beings that crave power, that desire forbidden things and knowledge to achieve them. He doesn’t need a detailed history to know one’s greed and the levels they will go to satisfy them.

The Executioners certainly saw to that.

Keith has been so quiet during the entirety of their conversation that it nearly startles Shiro to hear him speak. “The Healing Church is obsessed with the power of the Great Ones. It’s been their mission all along to take the power of a Great One to become all powerful. The Blade of Marmora has members in many positions, spies that monitor what they’re doing. It’s nothing but a hunger for power to become as great as a god themselves.”

“Keith here is apart of a secret organization that has spent so long spying on the Healing Church, ready to take it down because of its constant abuse of power. They’re corrupt fiends, they are, and it’s high time someone ought to fix them up.” The orange-haired man raises his fists, assuming a defensive stance. There’s a proud gleam in his eyes, his posture straightened and ready to take on such things that are likely beyond what he can handle. Allura only laughs, soft and brief.

“Yes, well, we can only hope the Healing Church will face justice for all its doings, but it does explain why you have that arm in a sense. Perhaps that arm was used by some of the Old Blood they had or used some kind of magic they had gathered from what a Great One may have left behind in the old labyrinths. Perhaps this is their first step in achieving such means.”

Keith pushes off the wall, his boots padding softly against the plush carpet as he comes to a halt in front of the table, garnering Shiro’s attention as the hunter’s arms fold against his chest. His eyes are drawn to Shiro’s arm, narrowed and with a serious look that leaves no room for doubt that this isn’t bothering him more than he’s letting on.

“The Healing Church, from what the Blades have gathered, has a rather violent faction within their ranks. They’re known as the Galra—”

( _A constant tap of dripping blood._

_Arms raised toward the sky, spread and reaching, as a voice booms with a knowing. It speaks of an inevitable, of what shall happen, but none of that matters, not when his world is narrowing down to the near eviscerating pain that eats along his arm._

_Rather, what’s left of it._

_“The power of a Great One, within our grasps.”_

_Heavy footsteps in his ear._

_“Imagine, the power to cleanse this world of its needless stench.”_

_Metal rustles along something that creates a sharp sound._

_“Knowing that we are the rightful among the cursed.”_

_Foot steps become closer, the tap of blood becomes stronger. There’s nothing after this, the silence is thick and settles so heavily._

_Sweat is sharp on his tongue._

_“Tell me, dearest_ Vileblood _,” and it’s in his ear, loud and saccharine, “are you ready to have the honor of helping the Galra become gods?”_ )

—oh,  _oh_ , that’s right, he’s not there anymore.

Oh, yes, Keith is talking and Shiro just shortened out in a manner that has eaten time from him. It’s still jarring, and he can’t admit how much he hates these things, how much he hates what it does to him cause that would mean admittance, it would mean a true acknowledgement to the things that had been stolen from him by a thief meant to do so much harm to him.

“—and they’re working within the Church but as their own covenant. They’re more willing to use means the Church would normally not approve of, but they’re what the Church has always coveted doing. Ulaz has said they’re running their own experiments with blood, but he’s not sure what they are since he’s not high enough to see with his own eyes.”

“Shiro,” that snaps his attention, his eyes finding Allura’s, “if you remember anything at all, and though it mustn’t be pleasant, do you have a clue about what they’re planning?”

This is certainly the part that Shiro loathes to participate in, but really, with as great of a discovery that can lead to knowing a possible prevention of such a devastating plan this group is formulating, Shiro swallows down his own discomfort. There are innocents at risk, there are people going to be involved that don’t need to know what bloodshed is.

His eyes fall shut, a roughened breath is exhaled from his lungs as he prepares to delve into that tattered remains of his memory.

“It’s… it’s indescribable at times as my memory isn’t clear, but I do remember there was talk about these Great Ones. They wanted to become them, to achieve “enlightenment” and transcend. They never said Old Blood, they called it quintessence.”

“Quintessence?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s what they used a lot. Sometimes Old Blood was used, but I don’t remember much of it.” He looks down at his arm, tracing over the runes, the intricate amount of detail that was put into crafting it. “I think this arm was being tested. I have vague collections of using this. I think they put me into a forced combat, I get flashes of it every so often.”

“Ulaz mentioned something about a fighting ring. Information is hard to get outside of the Healing Church. They’re tight-lipped and secretive.”

“I don’t know, but I think that’s why they gave me this arm. To test it, to see if it can do something.”

Allura leans back in her chair, arms folding in front of her as she loosely grips at her upper arms, “from what it sounds like, perhaps they’re creating some kind of weapons? It’s not unheard of to infuse arcane magic with weapons.” Her eyes glance toward Keith, to where his blade sits against his waist. “The hunters are fond using mediums to enhance their weapons, and arcane magic is one of them.”

“Like when Lance uses that… what’s it called again?” Coran tries to interject.

“Bone marrow ash.”

“Ah, that thing.”

Keith can probably see the confusion in Shiro’s eyes. “It’s made from what the name says. It’s an ash that can be used in gun powder for firearms. It adds strength to the bullets. Lance says it’s invaluable, but I tell him to find a better weapon.”

“Keith,” is Allura’s lightly reprimanding voice, “you know he’s sensitive about his abilities.”

Keith looks far from being concerned about “Lance’s abilities”.

Shiro is leaning forward to place both arms—arm, he corrects himself—on the table as a headache begins to form from the continuous forcing of memories he’s desperately trying to recall. There’s a stubborn wall that’s between him and what he needs and though the wall is cracked and chipping away, it still requires much effort on Shiro’s part to take the rest of it down. His hands rise as his fingers sit against his forehead, pressing into the skin and hair that hangs there, eyes closing as his teeth grit. The ex-knight breathes in, trying to steady himself against the pressure that has begun to well up.

“It’s difficult to tell,” and his hands fall away, setting onto the table, “there is a lot of what happened to me that I cannot recall as hard as I try, but I recall only flashes of what they were possibly planning. This arm,” and he resists the urge to shudder as he feels the magic shifting within him, responding to his life, “is possibly something they put a lot of effort into, and it’s highly unlikely they’re going to let it go. I don’t know how I was able to escape but something tells me that I didn’t do it alone.”

“Oh!” and Allura looks over at Keith, “Keith, you said that the Blade of Marmora had embedded operatives in the Church?”

“Yes.” Keith’s face is curious though it’s expressed in his eyes as his face is still mostly closed off.

“Could it be possible that they discovered Shiro and helped to orchestrate an escape for him?”

Keith seems to chew on these words, tasting them and deciding what he should do about them. “It is possible, though Ulaz, nor Thace, or any others for that matter, have mentioned freeing any prisoners.”

Shiro raises his face, feeling the weight of so much pushing between his shoulder blades, biting and unyielding, for just a mere moment, his shoulders wanting to collapse and crumble. It’s just so much, what he’s been through, what he’s had to see that his mind has decided to wipe from him to reserve what is left of his sanity. The missing pieces frustrate him but yet, at the same time, he feels a kind of gratefulness toward them for the blessed ignorance that he can mostly retain.

His head tilts down, staring at the table, “I don’t recall if I ever met with a man named Ulaz or Thace, all I knew is what the Church—the Galra were putting me through. Their plans to achieve enlightenment to become gods. I’m sorry that I can’t give you more.”

“It’s quite alright, Shiro,” Coran’s hand lays upon his shoulder, the touch soft and squeezing at the tensed muscles there, “you’ve been through a tremendous loss, and I truly am sorry for what you’ve been through. If you ever need a place to belong to, then House Altea is welcome to you.”

There’s a prolonged silence that Shiro doesn’t know what to make of, acutely aware of the people in the room even though there is only the four of them, and without the focus of the conversation, it leads Shiro astray into thoughts about what he should be doing and having to confront the utter helplessness that he feels when it comes to this.

He’s honestly so tired of feeling helpless, feeling like a shadow of the proud man he once was upon a time.

But becoming the man he once was is next to impossible.

“I have… accepted that I may never know what became of castle Cainhurst, what happened to my queen, and knowing that the Church, the  _Galra_ , saw it befitting to use me for their plan—it’s angering. I can’t let them continue to do this. What other person have they laid eyes upon and used them the way I was?”

The answer is unspoken but hangs heavily between all of them.

“It is unfortunate that this happened to you, Shiro, and I truly am sorry,” but Shiro can hear the protest coming, “but what will you have us do? What can we do when the Church has much more power and influence than what we can hope to achieve?”

Keith steps away from the table, a slow, methodical walk that he stops only moments after, his back turned toward them as, “the Church has spent countless years in control, comfortable on their throne. There’s only so much that us Blades can do within the Church’s empire.” Keith’s head tilts back, “I can’t say that we can take them down all at once,” his feet shift and his body angles to the side, craning his neck and turning those amethyst eyes onto them, “but we have what they want: Shiro’s arm must be precious to them. No doubt they’d want it back. They’re likely to search for it regardless if Shiro is considered dead to them.”

“We need a plan,” Allura stands, “we need to make sure that Shiro is safe, but also make sure that he is able to defend himself.”

That sends ripples down the ex-knight’s spine, his body moving before he can really examine what he’s supposed to say or do. “Allura, I appreciate you trying to help me, and I really do, but I will not have you put yourself at risk for me.”

“What will you have me do, Shiro? Hide myself away in my home while you’re relentlessly pursued when I could have done something about it? While I may not be able to fight against the Church, I can provide you with protection.”

“She’s right,” Coran chimes in, his hand having fallen from Shiro’s shoulder moments go,” we cannot let ourselves stand by while you suffer at their hands. You have allies in us, Shiro, and we’ll see to it that we help you as best as we can.”

Keith angles his body fully toward them, arms crossing as his head angles down, eyes on the floor in what Shiro has recognized as Keith’s contemplative stance, “I can’t promise that everything will be alright. The Church is dangerous, the Galra even more so. Are you sure you want to go through this, Shiro?”

His eyes raise and look straight at Shiro, their intensity centered on Shiro that he feels them as a weight upon his chest, that touches all along his skin that feels almost too real for him to understand. It’s a weighted stare, one that prods and looks to see the answer that many won’t speak but can recognize. The amount of guarded emotion that lies within the stare is on full display, and it makes Shiro curious to see that even through the development of this tentative alliance, Keith is still keeping himself distanced from everyone.

The taller man can’t ignore his curiosity and desire to push gentled fingers into the seams that make up Keith’s being, to pull at the strings in a way that Keith can’t resist, to see just why Keith wants to hide those soft and vulnerable pieces of his being. Why must Keith see it important to keep himself locked away and push this façade into place to keep everyone away from him?

Shiro’s own nature to soothe and calm a person to reassurance and encourage their nature into something more is rearing in the face of Keith’s quiet animosity and distance.

“I have to face this. I have no choice as long as this arm exists, and I am its owner. I am bound to it, and I will fulfill what I must do.”

Keith’s eyes search him further, looking for whatever he needs to know that Shiro is serious about this. It’s his honor that rises, one of the things that made him such an admirable knight and as a reliable person that people could believe.

If he is to live his life, if he is to continue to take this second chance, then he must make the strides to do so.

_“How long can you keep that up before you become a drooling infant when you face a beast?”_ is a poisonous saccharine voice that lingers at the back of his mind.

He’ll deal with when it comes to him in the future.

“Well!” Allura’s hands clap together, fingers clasping together, her voice jubilant, “I think this is settled. I humbly welcome you to enjoy my home, House Altea, and to please enjoy your stay. As Coran has said, you are welcome to stay here any time your heart desires.”

Shiro smiles, a friendly thing that sprawls across his face, before his attention is shifted onto the hunter in the room, who has gotten the answer from Shiro and seemingly has found no need to stay around. He catches sight of Keith leaving and his eyes turn back to the table where Keith’s mask still sits. It’s odd, and Shiro questions why Keith would just leave it.

“Oh, don’t mind him, Keith has always been a sort of mysterious person.”

Steel-colored eyes turn to meet beryl hues. There’s a soft look that’s etched into Allura’s face.

“I know you must be with curiosity about why Keith is the way he is. There are reasons but please do not find fault with why he chooses to be.”

Allura allows herself to reach for the book she had been reading earlier, fingers lingering along the pages. “It isn’t my place to give you the stories he keeps with him. His past is rough, more so than what he deserves, but if he tells you, allows you to see who he is underneath all those feathers, then I would consider it an honor.”

Allura closes the book, turning her head toward him. “Just know that he is very loyal. When he commits to a cause, he will make sure to fulfill it. He is a very skilled hunter, and as much as I wish for him to let someone help him, he can look after himself. Please, just only be patient with him.”

That seems to be the end of what Allura must want to say as she begins to right herself to step around the table. Coran stands to the side, watching them, not saying anything as he looks at both of them. Before Allura can reach the other side of the room where the door lies, Coran clears his throat and, “if you need a tour of the house, don’t hesitate to ask. I will say, do be careful of Luka, she can be a bit of a stubborn one, and Romelle, who seems to be sick, but don’t worry your head about them. Allura takes good care of them in her home. Why, I have walked in on many times where they’re all—”

“Coran!” is Allura’s horrified voice that spirals into the room with such an intensity. “Do not talk about these kinds of matter! They are private! And none of your business!”

“I’m only warning him, Allura. It’ll save the embarrassment that I have had to endure by your forgetfulness to lock the doors when you and the others become intimate—”

“That is for another time,” she hisses, reaching out to cover his mouth, pressing harshly into the man’s mustache, reaching her other hand out to grasp at his ear, tugging harshly as she turns to march out of the room, dragging Coran with her as he protests the rougher treatment.

“Please, excuse us, Coran here has forgotten about some dishes that need tending to, and not personal details of my… more intimate relationships.”

Shiro watches with a kindling amusement as Allura drags Coran out, and just before the door closes, Allura pokes her head in while still holding Coran back. His voice is muffled outside the heavy wooden door, but Allura speaks louder with, “please, enjoy your stay, Shiro. I will,” and her cheeks taken on a more scarlet hue, contrasting with the rich dark color of her skin, “try to warn you of my more… other activities if you find yourself in the vicinity. Please, do not hesitate to ask for help if you need it.”

With that, she pulls out of the doorway, taking Coran with her as his voice fades as the beyond as the door closes shit, the heavy sound it creates telling Shiro that he is now alone, left with his thoughts and feelings on how and what he’s supposed to be doing.


	3. Chapter 3

Shiro is alone with his thoughts as they slowly well up inside the bones of his skull and create an ever-expanding pressure when the heavyset wooden door shifts, creaking open, scattering Shiro’s thoughts just enough to allow his eyes clarity beyond himself. The door pushes open, slow, methodic, and Shiro finds his limbs calcifying in a familiar sensation that tries to seize his bones. There’s no danger here, there’s nothing to actually fear and in hindsight, Shiro knows this. The flex of his hand isn’t necessary, the jerk of that old magic within his soul doesn’t need to react to anything. He  _knows_ this, he should know this.

But of course, escaping trauma is much easier said than done.

A warrior never truly shakes off that instilled instinct to protect themself.

But the face behind the door does more than disarm his body and sweep all thought of anything else from his mind.

It’s Keith and—he’s missing his crow feather cape and without it, Kith’s being doesn’t feel like a larger than life pillar.

The dark-haired man also has his hair undone from the braid, spilling over his shoulders and covering his ears, and cascades along his arms, untamed and unkept, in winding waves of blackened ink that stands against the alabaster of his skin. It ends itself in the middle of his stomach, swaying softfrom between his thighgsly from his every movement. His bangs hang in his face, almost obscuring his eyes, down the sides of his face that frames it and helps to bring out the pale of that skin, the unblemished look besides a scar that Shiro finally notices. It’s a pale pink, the edges smoothed over from what looks like a jagged blow that had caught him. It only adds to the formidable aura that has always followed the hunter.

Keith steps forward into the room and Shiro notices his boots are gone, his feet are bare, but he still retains his pants and undershirt, as well as his blade that’s secured to his hip. He can understand that, that no matter where one shall go, their weapon must be kept in close quarters. It’s an undeniable thing a warrior cannot resist, that comfort can’t be achieved without a trusted assurance that it can be protected.

His body is slender, hidden by the crow feather cape, making him more imposing with the combination of that mask—right, it’s still on the table, innocuous and unassuming without its owner in the vicinity. The ex-knight can’t help but wonder what it was to make Keith decide to leave the room without his trusty face protection. That familiar urge of care that swells within Shiro’s chest is a familiar one, a feeling that dates back to Cainhurst when he was known for his compassion and care beyond the pointed end of a sword. However, Shiro reserves his tongue curious about what Keith is doing.

He also holds his tongue from wanting to give shape to his thoughts about how he wants to run his fingers along that long hair, wants to grip at it and see the other man peering up through those bangs and scarlet staining that skin.

There’s a lot of things he wants but shall not indulge in.

Keith pads into the room, his feet soft on the plush carpet, as he trots toward Shiro. He must be coming to retrieve his mask and retreat back to the room that he doesn’t doubt Allura having prepared for him. From how Allura framed it, Keith must be a dear friend despite the air that the short man held around him. Allura must be used to the silences and lack of words rom Keith’s tongue, knowing just enough how to decipher what must isn’t being said. Allura holds a high regard for Keith, and if Shiro weren’t familiar with Pidge and her relationship with Keith (oh, how that leaves an acrid taste at the back of his tongue), he would assume that there could be something there.

He’s been around enough of his men to know that a man around a pretty woman has little thought to resist temptation to lay his fingers across their body. The desires of men in the face of temptation with a beautiful face becomes secondary. He can understand from a certain standpoint, in that his preference is men and knowing a few others who were exclusive to the male audience, even some that liked men and women, but most of them finding themselves panting after the slightest show of supple skin. He can understand attraction, he can relate to them, but the ex-knight has always held a restraint that many found admirable about him.

But the attraction, the desire—it’s still there. The baser urges of man will always be there regardless of restraint and self-discipline, and Shiro is no stranger to it.

Keith comes closer to the table Shiro is seated at, his facial expression nothing away as Shiro isn’t versed enough in knowing the other man’s body language enough to know what to expect. The curiosity is growing but he holds his teeth shut and anchored to stop any sounds from escaping. The other man comes forward, stopping in front of his mask, placing his hands on the beaked part, lingering there as he stares at it, fingers lingering on the clawed grooves of the mask.

The other pan inhales, shoulder lifting and his chest expanding, sighing before, “I never did truly thank you for saving my life.”

From the looks of it, Keith doesn’t seem to be used to this.

How interesting, Shiro thinks.

“It’s what anyone would do for someone in need,” is Shiro’s gentle voice, hoping his gesture rings genuine with the other.

“You would be surprised by how many people would’ve left me there,” and Keith continues to look at his mask. “Yharnam isn’t particularly filled with people who think of others than themselves.”

“People are good, Keith. You just have to give them a chance.”

Keith’s head cranes toward him, that narrowed look still shaping his face but it’s much less hostile than he remembers. Those violet eyes (truly, how is it that he possesses such color of eyes?) scrutinize him, looking for what Shiro has no idea of, but knows Keith must be seeking out something that can dissuade his statement.

“Not in my line of work. No one is willing to undertake those burdens.”

Shiro leans forward, his elbows placing themselves on the table. “Keith, I understand you have faced horrors-I do, and I’ve seen my fair share of evil in man’s heart when I was a knight—” and does that still hurt to know that’s another thing that was stolen from him, but Shiro swallows down the bitter taste of it, “—but there are people with good intentions.”

Keith straightens himself, shoulders stiffening. “A hunter isn’t the life people want to become apart of. They want nothing to do with it, but they want the benefits of what a hunter can do for them. I have seen what man can do, what they can become. It’s hard to believe any of that rings true.”

Shiro remains patient, his eyes never hardening but retaining the soft edge to them. He doesn’t know what it is, he doesn’t know what compels him to, but he wants to argue his case for the good of man it to Keith. He was a knight after all, he should know the power struggles that people engage in, the armies they send to command and conquer to their heart’s content, that blood is a desirable trophy for them to use as a victory over everything that they’ve laid siege to.

“Yes, I know, Keith, I know what people are capable of.” He takes a breath, readying himself, “I also know that people are capable of being good. I know we all have capacity to be evil, but we can also be courteous and thoughtful toward others.”

Keith’s mouth tenses somewhat, but Shiro doesn’t finish, but he angles his neck to look up at Keith further, his eyes softening, an airy smile coming over his mouth, “I’m sorry that you’ve not had someone show you how good man can be. I think you should give people a chance, let them show they can be good people.”

“It’s foolish to think that,” and Keith’s voice has an edge to it, a defensive stance, and Shiro can see Keith doesn’t truly believe him. Something must have happened to him in the past that has rendered the goodness of people to be something obsolete to him. Shiro doesn’t want to pry with the curious fingers he wants to reach out with, he respects Keith’s space, but he wants to know what it is. “Not everyone can walk with ignorance and bliss, not everyone can afford to stay without knowledge of what’s truly out there and not be on guard.”

Keith angles his body toward the taller man, arms crossing as his defenses are flaring up. “I truly appreciate you saving my life. You have my thanks, but I simply cannot think that I’m to live without thinking of what’s around me because of one rare good deed.”

Keith’s stance shifts, softening and the defensive edge loosening, “I am grateful, Shiro, I truly am, and I want to pay back what you have given me, but to live like that, it is foolish, and it will allow a beast the opportunity to get its jaws on you.”

It shouldn’t be astounding to how much Keith doesn’t believe in the goodness of people, and Shiro supposes that hunters haven’t led the most of glamorous lives, that their rewards must be a rare gift for them, but that still doesn’t mean Shiro is going to give up. There is a soul underneath those feathers that is wounded. Shiro knows he doesn’t think of Keith as weak, that he’s a fragile thing, something that needs to soothe those cracks and broken pieces, but someone that should help mend them. Kindness is a human quality that shouldn’t be feared but embraced, should be given freely.

Certainly, the people of Yharnam seem to think otherwise, and Keith is no different than those that continue to live here.

Instead, Shiro keeps calm, lets that compassionate man that was so sought after by his own knights come to the surface, a little torn and wounded from events past, but still no different than how he used to be. “You heard me earlier, Keith, about what I had lost, what I had seen.”

“I did.”

Shiro retracts his elbows from the table, leaning forward as his feet push the chair back, sliding along the plush carpet as he places his hands on his knees and pushing upward, his voice still steady as, “you heard about me losing my home, my knighthood, my queen,” and Shiro lets himself unfurl slowly, his back slowly straightening as his hair shifts forward, his eyes closed, “you’ve heard about all those things happening to me. I should know about how it feels to see the end of a sword at my throat. To feel death beckoning my body.”

Shiro opens his eyes, now at his full height, his shoulders loose, “I should, by all intents, hate man. I should hate them for taking away everything.” Instead, Shiro chooses to step back from the table, “I should think the same as you, about the evils of man that shouldn’t let them be redeemed. I should hate them, for my home, my queen, my _arm_ —” and Keith’s eyes briefly allow themselves to flicker toward his arm, “—and I shouldn’t let myself forgive them.”

Shiro moves one of his feet back, heel grazing against the floor, “I should, on principle, want revenge on man.”

He turns, his body facing away from Keith, heels turning and taking a gradual step forward as the ex-knight’s head tips back, ash-colored eyes finding the ceiling and gazing at it. He doesn’t take in the intricate carvings and designs that are present, the robust colors that make up the obviously expensive designs and paint and oils that went into its creation not registering to him. He takes a small step forward, walking with no real aim in mind.

“I should want a lot of things, Keith, all things that end in blood on my hands.” He’s just walking, very aware of the hunter’s eyes on him. Instead, Shiro raises both hands leisurely and allows his head to fall forward, staring at them. “I should go after the Galra, I should go after the Healing Church and kill every person that lies within those walls.”

His feet halt.

“But you know what, Keith?” Shiro doesn’t wait for an answer, “I know it to be only their fault, I know it to only be them that makes up a small part of man itself, and I know they’re truly the evil that scorns man.”

Shiro lowers his hands, dropping to his side as his shoulders relax. “It is not everyone’s fault for the few that we encounter, that we have company with. Holding onto those feelings, it’s only going to hurt you in the end, and stop you from seeing the good people can do.”

Shiro moves again, slowly coming around the large table, stepping toward Keith, careful of the other’s body language, looking for signs of rejection to his advances. He’s come to know of Keith’s need for distance from people, to retain his own self separate from others. It’s a defense mechanism, Shiro recognizes for what it’s worth, and he has to tread carefully.

“You may not see any worth in it,” and Shiro is coming up onto Keith, his body inching ever closer, “But I do, and if you would allow it, you could see others have kindness in their hearts.”

He’s standing in front of Keith now, staring down at the other man. This is the closest that Shiro has been allowed near Keith, and up close, he can trace those features with a finer look that he wasn’t allowed the opportunity. He can see the mess of Keith’s hair, see how the messy waves of hair cascades against his shoulders, see every piece that’s out of place and curling into different directions. He can see the lashes of the smaller man’s eyes, lengthy and blackened that line those peculiar purple eyes. His lips full and pressed together in a neutral expression that Shiro doesn’t know how to read yet, but he continues to maintain eye contact.

Keith doesn’t look anywhere near impressed with his speech, doesn’t look moved like how he was used to seeing his knights were, but Keith hasn’t offered to reject Shiro as a person.

He hears a breath from Keith’s nostrils, sees the slight flare of them before there is a quirk to his lips.

“That is quite a foolish way to live, Shiro. I’d be careful,” and hi voice is soft but still holds none of the quality of a person moved by his words, “I know of hunting, I know of how people are. I’ve seen how fear takes someone, what life can choose to do.” There’s an emotion that flashes in Keith’s eyes, bright but so fast that Shiro thinks he could have missed it if he weren’t this close. “It’s admirable, but it’s still foolish.”

Shiro is ready to protest, offer his own words again but Keith stops him as, “I, too, have faced great loss. I was unable to do anything about it but cower. It was foolish to live with no care and it almost cost me my life. I simply cannot afford to live the way you do, Shiro.”

Keith steps back, his hands grasping at his mask. Shiro wants to reach out, he wants to stop the other man from retreating. He wants to know more, he wants to see what Keith has lost and do his best to restore it. It’s not motivated because of his attraction to Keith, it’s nothing meant to benefit his own but bred of the pure desire to help Keith and allow a fostering positive feeling to be created within Keith to lighten those dark corners that inhabit Keith’s being.

Keith turns his back to Shiro, mask held loosely in his hands as he looks down at the object as Shiro looks on. “In my line of work, kindness can’t be afforded, people are what they are, and I’m here to see that it’s ended. My father—” oh, this is something, “—lived like you. He believed in the kindness of people.”

There’s a breath, “and people told him to be careful, but he chose to continue to live like that. He put himself between a beast and another person. He was a hero, you know? He was, but it didn’t feel like it when he left me behind.”

Shiro stops himself before he can dart forward, surprised by the information that Keith has given him. It leads to the assumption that there might be trust Keith has in him no matter how fleeting it is, but Shiro grasps at it and holds it close.

“That cost me my father. It cost the other children at the orphanage their lives as they let a man in who was sick and wanted to play with him. They all were ruthlessly slaughtered while I was spared, hiding under the bed as scourge beasts swarmed and made meals out of them.”

That’s a stone weight in Shiro’s stomach.

“I believe you wish to help people, Shiro,” and Keith turns around and for a moment, there is a sorrow on Keith’s face, a tired look that ages him more than what he should be. He hasn’t even considered how old Keith could be, but compared to Shiro’s own twenty-seven years of life, over a decade of it spent with a sword in his hand and blood on his face that is not of his own, he hasn’t even thought how all of this is weighing down on someone’s shoulders that is so young. How old was Keith when he picked up that strange blade and saw himself as a means to an end o something that has so dearly tried to rob him of what he used to be like.

“Many have died because of that, Shiro. I don’t know how you lived before, but it’s not how I have. I do believe you want to be kind, Shiro, but that kindness is misplaced in a world that only knows bloodshed.”

Keith’s face speaks of a war that Shiro knows too much of, the tired creak that accompanies him these days, and seeing it on the other’s face, seeing it displayed before Keith can shove it back down under that cool and distanced demeanor he adopts as protection, it’s enough to drive the ex-knight into wanting to do something about it.

“I’m sorry for what has happened to you, Keith, I really am, but that’s the past, not the future. The future can always be changed, it can be changed for good, for bad, but it’s up to you, Keith.”

“That may be,” and Keith turns back around, toward the door, “but that’s you, Shiro. I want help you, and I will, but we won’t see eye to eye on this. Too much bloodshed has happened for me to see it any different.”

“Keith…” and really, Shiro has no real way of responding to that.

“You’re a good man, Shiro. Keep it, don’t let the life I lead be your calling and ruin it.”

With that, Keith walks away from the other man, Shiro watching as he traces the curves of Keith’s body. He wants to reach out, he wants to stop Keith, he wants to hold the other man close in his arm and do everything he can to stop that kind of thinking that the hunter has spent far too long chained to. It’s a burden, Shiro can see it, and it’s visible now that Shiro can see how it’s hidden.

He makes it his resolve to get through to Keith, to show him that he can see light beyond the darkness of night and unknown.

 

 

\--

 

 

Nails along scratched skin with reddened trails against scars that are gouged so viscerally under them, discolored with irritation placed so visibly against it. They trail along skin that’s slick with sweat, curling under these nails that force them to slide without any traction. They dig into that skin, harsh and desperate, slipping as they tremble and unable to find a proper grip.

It’s those nails that place their mark along it, the heat they produce enough to burn whatever they want into them, and maybe, just maybe, there could be a new kind of rune that becomes birthed into existence without Oedon’s low whispers of words that hold everything within their sounds. Those whispers are of a different sound, of a different nature, that are heated and all-encompassing as they continue to breathe a life of desperation and shaking on their foundation as they crumble into more of an incoherent nature.

It’s when those nails, ones that continue to paint the violent color against the skin that retreat and find a different place to dig into, against white sheets and fabrics that must be too delicate to hold against the amount of force that those nails take. It’s with the clenching of those fingers these nails belong to that pull against it, tearing at these sheets and become mixed with long tendrils of hair that swirl and cover large portions of white, staining them with their messiness and midnight color.

It’s when amethyst eyes are open, glazed and unseeing, that tell of a different story, that draw attention as they close against, pulling back as they can no longer stay open. Hot pants follow, unclear in their rhythm but telling of a desperation that conveys through their upheaval of a panting chest that’s exposed to all the little wonders of life, ribs that push out against the underside of slickened skin that flushes so vividly that it’s a wonder it isn’t burning.

All of this, with that voice that pants and breathes a life that can’t be replicated, it calls out with an invitation, with a litany of works that all point to a plea for salvation.

“S-Shiro, I… Shiro,  _please_.”

It doesn’t get any further because there’s a mouth to claim those words, licks along them before swallowing them and the sound that comes after, a near whimper that’s rife with emotion that matches along the desperation that’s expressed. Those hands grasp harder as that mouth steals more of those sounds.

It’s the image of Keith, panting and heaving under a broad body that can’t seem to get his bearings together enough to produce that cool image of aloofness and untouchable presence. It’s all reduced to nothing but a whimper and grasping hands desperate to center themselves and save him from this ruin his body is becoming.

And all of it, the desperation of it—all of it belongs to Shiro, all of it is meant for him, only for him, to see the famous Keith, the Crow, under him and begging and pleading as Shiro keeps him pinned to the bed. Where his cock has the pleasure of prying Keith open and creating a space within the other man for his own taking, for his own desire, for his own need, and knowing that no one will ever have Keith like he has.

His mouth is a hot line against the skin of Keith’s neck, biting down as he gives a sharp thrust of his hips, stopping holding himself there as Keith seizes up, a gasp stuttering out as Shiro leans his body down, covering Keith much smaller one as one hand comes up to bury into Keith’s hair, arranging himself to fuck into Keith harder, faster, hearing Keith gasp and tremble and—

Sunlight is in his eyes, bright and vivid as they highlight the slate color. The ceiling is warm with light, the posh colors of the room given a warm hue as the light increases into the room. Ash eyes blink and stare in an uncomprehending state at the ceiling, not registering what they’re seeing.

Shiro breathes, his mind trying to catch up from under the oblivion of sleep and the fast pull of his mind from it, reeling and trying to orient itself. His body is relaxed, not catching what his mind is trying to recover from as it’s disoriented from the wakefulness of his sleep. There’s nothing that comes to mind as Shiro begins to move, his back rising from the softness of the bed, blankets scattered and ruffled along his body and he sits up, hunching forward to stay in that position. His hair hangs in his face, the stark color of white his bangs possess against the onyx color of the rest of his hair, laying against his shoulders in tangles.

A large, scarred hand of flesh and blood comes to press against his face, rubbing against the morning growth on his face. Shiro stays like that for a while, uncomprehending and unseeing behind his eyelids that have closed. He breathes, eyes opening to blink uncomprehendingly.

He… He didn’t dream of blood between sharp teeth and fangs and putrid breath in his face that festers with death and fatal intentions. He didn’t dream of claws down his body and teeth in his flesh and bone that cracks and splinters and lets his life seep through it in rivers of scarlet that only spurs on the teeth in his arm.

He doesn’t dream of the  _tap, tap, tap_ of small blades set down on a steel slab of others, blood on their sharp edges, held with white doctor’s gloves stained with his own blood.

He doesn’t dream of a foul beast that lurks just beyond the light, with eyes of faintly glowing rubies and sallow skin, grey with death with arms open and claws poised and a faint breath of poison that seeps out of it.

No, he didn’t dream of that.

He dreamt of something else.

It’s the first time he’s awoken without fear so heavy in his chest and a scream that eviscerates his throat.

It does register that yes, he just had a dream about Keith that was vivid and salacious in nature and that part of his cringes that he dreamed of Keith like that and having to face him at the same time, not sure if he can look the other hunter in the eye for a little while, but his mind is mostly caught on the fact that he’s not screaming or pulling at his hair or somewhere crouched in the room as his muscles are tensed and ready to spring into action at the mere movement of the smallest thing.

It does register that yes, he just had a dream about Keith that was vivid and salacious in nature and that part of his cringes that he dreamed of Keith like that and having to face him at the same time, not sure if he can look the other hunter in the eye for a little while, but his mind is mostly caught on the fact that he’s not screaming or pulling at his hair or somewhere crouched in the room as his muscles are tensed and ready to spring into action at the mere movement of the smallest thing. It’s a marvel, he would think, that he’s not waking up with fear that’s so palpable and leaking out his chest and between his ribs to collect on the floor around him.

As much as he’s embarrassed about the… nature of his dream, he’s also glad that he’s not trying to hold himself together from shattering at the mere memories that like to rear up when he’s so vulnerable during his sleep.

Oh, the dream and what it’s telling Shiro what his subconscious mind is asking for. There’s nothing about it that Shiro can do, there’s nothing that that even suggests Keith would interested in him in any way possible, there’s nothing that even suggests Keith is interested in anything beyond unconfirmed suspicions about the nature of Keith’s relationship to Pidge, but he shows no reaction to anything other than that sense of duty he’s committing to or Shiro’s sake and his disdain for people as a while.

The color in his cheeks hasn’t left and there’s no way Shiro can leave this room like this, no way he’ll be able to hide the more physical signs of what his dream was about that lies beneath the blanket and his sleep clothes that Allura happily provided him. He tries as much as possible to will it away, refusing to entertain his thoughts that desperately seek attention, teeth grinding against each other in an ever so failing resistance in the face of desires that were allowed to roam freely within the meadows of his mind.

 _The dignity of a knight, the dignity of a knight_ , is a litany of words that continue to repeat in Shiro’s mind, his fingers clenching into the blankets, nails biting into the soft, silk-like material (it probably is, knowing how Allura has enough wealth to afford this) that he could almost feel the give of threads under his nails. His body hunches over more, his hair obscures his face, his jaw clenching as the room begins to center on him, his desire begins to dig its nails in between the vertebrae of his spine, looking or the spaces in between to slip into and build his entire foundation from desire itself. His lungs breathe in deeper, trying to dispel the heat that begins to settle into him, his blood a traitor as it delivers it through his body.

The corners of his eyes are tense s the full brunt of his desire finally collapses onto his mind as the initial feeling of awe that was inspired from not having a fear-inducing dream subsides into the full realization of what his body craves. The magic that lies within is reacting to him; he can feel the stretch of it, the morphing of its being in ways that should not exist on this mortal plane. It’s reacting to Shiro’s body, it’s taking in his desire, his feelings, and it’s reacting to him. There’s a muted feeling in his arm, where those fingers are also biting into the blankets, that has a distinct feel to it that shouldn’t be anything in the first place.

Shiro peers to the side, looking into the sunlight that softly pads into the room, minced through the slats of the blinds and blurred through expensive and lush curtains that adorn the wall, not taking in their fancy colors or articulate, hand-woven designs as he’s trying to force himself out of this state. Instead, it only grows and the ex-knight groans, equal parts frustrated and with a thirst that expands through his throat and into his chest, needy and insatiable as it is annoying and unbecoming of a man who used to stand for so much within Cainhurst.

Imagine him, Takashi Shirogane, one of the commanders of the knights of Cainhurst, a symbol of self-restraint and discipline, reduced down to his base desires that he can’t get ahold of.

Perhaps this is another affect of his time captive in the hands of the Galra—maybe they planned for this, this downfall of who he is and what he stands for, and maybe it’s just another step in assuring that Shiro can no be who he was. Perhaps it was their plan all along, Shiro wonders, that this is supposed to be something they thought to humiliate him further.

Well, they’ve certainly been able to achieve that.

Shiro moves, aware of the sensitivity his skin wants to take on as he moves through the blankets, every shift and graze of the comforter against his skin magnified beyond what the scarred man thought to be possible. The blankets are almost unbearable their texture and material enough to set Shiro on edge. His legs swing over the bed to place themselves flat on the floor, almost not registering the soft thickness of the rug beneath his feet, filling the spaces between his toes and molding to his feet. Instead, Shiro hunches over, one hand coming up to place against his knee, sliding down his leg until enough of his sleep pants wrinkle underneath his hand for it to stop sliding as the other arm bends at the elbow, hand moving back behind him a small distance as it settles onto the bed. His weight moves forward, settling onto the hand placed on his leg.

Just a moment, as long as he needs, to get himself under control.

Why is there so much desire that build beneath his skin?

The answer is simple but only gives way to how much Shiro has lost in his life.

He won’t deny it, his body is telling him it misses a human intimacy it has been denied for so long, much longer than Shiro himself is aware of, and it knows what it wants, having forced itself out of the self-imposed discipline that used to triumph over its own desires. But now that’s been a weakened force and Shiro’s body is now ready to let have an idea of just how long it’s been since he’s been without an intimate touch. It doesn’t even matter if it’s only for a purely physical touch, his body wants it,  _craves_  it.

Shiro is no stranger to single nights of release with another man, he’s not unfamiliar with sensual oils and nails against his back and a breathy voice in his ear that asks, begs, pleads for him to be rougher, to make them forget about their life for those moments. He’s not unfamiliar with sex, he’s had his fair share of it, but the strong desire that his body expresses for such an event is out of Shiro’s league and not what he’s used to dealing with.

He’s just have to wait it, refuse to touch himself, refuse to entertain the idea (soft skin beneath his fingers and sweat sharp under his tongue along an elegantly-sloped neck with black hair that lingers on the outer edges of his vision as they contrast with the pale color of skin it lies messily upon) of what his body wants.

If he’s to get himself back on his feet, to find his back to some of the remains of who he once was, he needs to cultivate himself and get back under control. Gaining even the smallest amount of choice, even for something as fleeting as ignoring the urge to find release, it’s enough for Shiro even though the journey their to achieve it is not something he particularly enjoys.

The ex-knight grits his teeth and soldiers on through it.

 

 

\--

 

 

He finds a set of clothes laid out for him, pressed and neatly folded that has an assortment of soaps and a towel next to them. There’s a note from Allura, “ _please enjoy my hospitality and accept these new clothes. I am sure that those ones you carry must attract attention as they are not Yharnam-styled. I’d much rather you wear these to stand out less to them. Hunters are universally recognized, and these clothes will create less hospitality. Yharnamites respect hunters enough to leave them be. I am hoping you find the same result._ ” 

He sets the note down, his eyes falling onto the clothes provided for him.

 

 

\--

 

 

“I want you to spar with me.”

The look Keith gives Shiro tells of a man who isn’t confident in what Shiro can do, and it has a judgmental undertone, subtle enough to detect. A part of Shiro balks at that, wanting to flare up and expand his chest and bulk himself up to look larger than life, but it would do very little in the face of how Shiro has become. Sure, his pride is a little wounded at that, but he doesn’t have much of a choice with how much he’s fallen from his previous stature. He has muscles, he’s got veins that push up against the underside of his arms and hands, he’s got widened shoulders and all the strength possible within his left (metal) arm but all of that pales in comparison to actual skill and cunning that has been honed and utilized much longer than Shiro is aware of.

Shiro’s own speed is lacking, his endurance is probably not up to date, and while his body has been used to a strength training that called for more drastic measures with adrenaline and fear-induced movements with no real plan behind them, the ex-knight knows that the lack of his mind being used has left him to only rely on his brute strength. Shiro didn’t make it to the top of the knights of Cainhurst on just strength alone—he was charismatic, he was thoughtful, he planned for things, but that was in a time of evets passed and no longer able to be realized now that his body is completely different and conditioned in other ways not meant for a knight.

Keith is bare of his cape and coat but still has his blade with him, sitting at the lush and lavish table of carved oak with the typical crest of a wealthy family. Allura must have something behind her wealth, or she comes from old money but even that must have limits. He’s not sure what Allura does to keep such wealth and afford such high-quality furnishings and obviously rare materials that are placed (surprisingly, in his opinion) tastefully around the area. He’s been inside a lot of wealthy people’s houses, inside their castles and mansions while on campaigns for Cainhurst to promote them and build alliances, and he’s never been taken with the display of power that many try to build into their foundations. All these polished brooches and gold and rare jewels for his eyes to take in get tiresome and their gaudy appearances lose their admirable qualities.

Keith chews on his food, swallowing (that Shiro briefly tracks, watching the movement as long as he can before it becomes suspicious) slowly before he leans forward.

“You want to spar,” he enunciates slowly, and Shiro thinks it’s not him trying to be mocking as he can see other people taking offense to that tone, “with me, after all that you’ve been through. I know not of your previous experience and from what I’ve gathered, you’ve only fought for your life but not against an actual person.”

Shiro tries to not grimace.

“You’re sure you want to face constant defeat? I hardly believe that’s something that you seek.”

Shiro sighs, the breath heavy and embedded with a tiredness that he can’t convey through words. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, why would you take on someone who only has brute strength and not the knowledge behind it to make it truly formidable.”

The subtle look on Keith’s face confirms that.

Keith really doesn’t know how to sweeten his words to make them less vicious.

“I was a previous knight, I know the importance of honing one’s skill, not just their strength because it is useless to possess such abilities if one doesn’t know how to use that strength. I have been—” and it pains him to say this, it really does, “—weakened by my captivity. I had no time to think about what to do, how I should fight, and it shows. I want to be stronger, I want to be able to defend myself like how I used to. I am asking you, Keith. You show formidable strength in battle. I can’t think of anyone better to spar with.”

Keith looks at him, leaning back in his chair to show that he’s giving Shiro his undivided attention.

“You know it to be a fool’s thought to think you will be okay after what has happened to you. To think that you can be what you used to be.”

“This is why I am asking you to help me gain back some of who I used to be. I need to be stronger, I need to be able to defend myself. I will not let myself become a burden more than I am.”

The hunter sighs, tilting his head down and closing his eyes as his arms come up to cross each other and against his chest as, “Shiro, you’re not a burden. I agreed to help you, I am in your debt for saving my life,” is softer than his previous tone. Keith leans forward as his head lifts up, his elbows coming up to rest on the table as his arms uncross and his forearms rest against the table. His violet eyes survey Shiro but Shiro lets his stance become looser, less confrontational as he needs Keith to do this for him. He needs to learn again, he needs to see where he is at as far as combat and tactics are concerned.

Is Shiro looking forward to his ass getting kicked and wiped along the floor? No, he’s not, and surely his pride will take a ferocious beating, but he needs this, he needs to gain back some of his own autonomy and ability to retain it.

 

 

\--

 

 

As expected, Keith puts him on his ass multiple times.

He nearly takes Keith out from strength alone, of which Keith compliments him for, but he’s still slow and Keith evades nearly all of his moves. Shiro holds back the strength of his left arm, unsure of his much force it holds and if it will hurt Keith. He doesn’t have enough knowledge about it beyond what Allura had told him about it, and he needs practice on it but preferably, not a human target.

Keith holds out his hand toward Shiro, offering it to him, and Shiro gladly takes it—

(His fingers are so much larger, thicker and sturdier than Keith’s agile, lither ones, the skin calloused from his blade, but that doesn’t take away the contrast of their sizes.

Shiro’s going to be thinking about this for a long time.)

—and lets Keith pull him up. He’s tired, grimy with sweat and muscle tension from all the times he tried to overtake Keith and put him on the ground. It did hurt his pride but it’s a kind of hurt that doesn’t make him wounded and incapacitated to a point where he needs to avoid such thing for a while. Even holding back, Keith is talented, he is worthy of a praise that will compliment his stature. For someone much smaller than Shiro, lither and more svelte, he sure knows how to utilize Shiro’s body weight and toss him around as though he’s nothing more than a leaf.

That’s a discovery the scarred man is going to be thinking about—about how much strength Keith really does have. His body certainly doesn’t give away any hints that he has so much more to offer.

They’re further away from Allura’s home and were unable to inform her that they were going for a spar as she was… tied up with the two other women that Shiro knows are there. Lucy or Luna or whatever her name was and the one female he heard of but hasn’t seen yet. Instead, the found Coran to let Allura know of their whereabouts while she was indisposed with the other two women in her bedroom.

They’re both walking back, reeking of dirt and the stench of sweat and for Shiro, city pavement, but they’re in one piece. They’re a little farther out from Allura’s residence in order to find a more secluded area that won’t have interruptions from people around them. It’s on a bridge, with abandoned carriages in various states of decay and what Shiro thinks are large, flightless… crows? He thinks? But they’re on the other side of the bridge where they’re a safe distance from them although there isn’t to be anything feared by them since they are unable to fly and their feathers vivid against the backdrop of stone and colorful abandoned pieces of machinery along the edges of the bridge’s road. They make loud sounds and push forward on their bellies in such a way that tells Shiro they would be more of an annoying foe than something that is meant to truly be feared.

They come upon stairs, ready to take the first step and—

A snarl rips through the air, the clack of nails against the ground and the stench of something putrid and dying surges into Shiro’s ears so fast that he has no time to react properly.

His eyes widen as everything falls away and crumbles and narrows down to a singular point in time that replays the moment in slowed, leisure tempo that he doesn’t know how to properly react—

Blood is fresh in the air and against his nose.

There’s another snarl, the slam of loose materials that clatter along the ground that shatter and wood splintering and snapping. His feet aren’t working, they’re not moving, they’re not doing  _anything_ —

A cry of pain so close to Shiro’s ear is what does him in.

Shiro feels a grip along his back, nails that head no warning or concern for the pain they cause as it snares into the cloth and  _pulls_ , jerking him back as another snarl echoes so close to his ears, it’s right next to his ears,  _he’s not fast enough_ —

Shiro stumbles down, his knees smash into the ground, his elbow takes a painful impact from the ground and bites into his skin, enough to tear into his skin and taste the warm blood underneath. His teeth grit, pain lancing through his muscles and shaking them and their foundation. He barely has time to react before there’s another tug, another pull, and he’s following it, his body useless and still in the midst of trying to understand.

A slam on claws, the scrape of them against the ground as more growls in twin unison echoes through his ears that Shiro looks up, finally jarred out of his trance. It’s a scourge beast, specifically, two of them that are backing up, stalking in a way, as though they’re planning an attack together. Those unseeing eyes again, locked onto Shiro, a visible bloodlust that’s there that’s locked onto him. His eyes look towards their claws as one of them has remnants of it on its claws. His eyes widen as he finally looks back to the Keith—oh,  _Keith_ , that’s right—

What Shiro finds makes his heart drop into the bottom of his feet.

Keith’s face is pained, teeth gritting, as he has one hand on Shiro’s clothes and Shiro notices just how hard the grip is, finally hearing the clench of his gloves from how much force there is that the hunter is exerting. Keith’s other hand is on the ground, palm flat as he’s on one knee, hunched over as one foot is placed on the ground. His mask isn’t with him, somewhere that’s not important to Shiro.

It’s that he notices the drip of blood that’s under Keith, droplets that create a trail from where they just were. There’s a gash along the arm that has its palm against the ground but that’s all Shiro can see. There has to be some other injury, there has to be more pain that is coming from somewhere that Shiro can’t see that’s causing such an expression on the other. He also notes the panting, the sharp intakes of breath that has Keith’s chest heaving.

“Fuck,” is strained and pain-laced as Keith’s voice is tense, “I didn’t pay enough attention. They got lucky and got us.” Shiro’s trying to get himself back in control as he can feel something low at the back of his mind. It’s a noise, a sound that echoes the seashore ad the waves that reside there. It’s growing, it’s surging higher and higher, and touching against the shore of his mind. It’s another series of noises that are trying to crowd into Shiro’s head to overtake him and push him under the waters of oblivion that will only lead him to a world of blurred images and near monochrome with a sequence of events that want to show him a kind of situation that has happened to him like this before.

This sure isn’t the place to be thrust into some kind of memory that’s become unhinged.

Keith winces, his face gaining more tension as he lets go of Shiro’s clothes to bring that hand to his waist, reaching for one of his pockets to search for what Shiro remembers is a blood vial, the image of Keith gulping down the contents and healing from the injuries.

“Dammit,” is out of Keith’s mouth before anything else as Keith brings up his hand, covered in blood that alarms Shiro.

“Keith, are you—”

“This isn’t ine,” is hurried and rushed, but that doesn’t assure Shiro and neither does it assure Keith. My blood vials—they were cracked when I got us away from the beasts. They must have been too damaged and bled out. Fuck.”

He looks up, toward the beasts, is eyes narrowing. “And my blade is too close to them. They got me on my back and arm, I don’t know if I could fight against them. One is already a hassle, but two of them?” Keith grimaces, his arm arms beginning to shake. “They’re of some of the most aggressive monsters. They know nothing but the bloodlust that blinds them to anything and everything. They stop at nothing to get their teeth into flesh and blood and now that I’m bleeding, they’re going to keep coming after us until they’re dead.”

Keith’s other leg gives out, falling to the knee as he hunches over further, panting and trying to get himself together. “Fuck, it’s a bad injury, how was I not aware of them?”

Keith is hurt, terribly so, and Shiro can’t comprehend the idea that they may not make it through this, He can’t reconcile the idea of it, he can’t reconcile that Keith has a real threat to his life.

His eyes track the pants that come from Keith, the heaving of his chest, the obvious pain on his face and knows that they need to act before those beasts decide to take their chance and attack them. It’s unlikely that Keith could take both of them, especially with his blade out of reach and too close to the beasts, as well as his injuries will do nothing but slow them down. Keith also had said that his blood vials had been crushed in his pocket, so Keith doesn’t have a way to heal enough from his injuries to put up any kind of resistance to them.

Sweat is tracing along Shiro’s hairline, his heart is slamming against the inside of his ribs, his throat is drying, and he knows he has to act fast. He has to before they don’t have a chanc—

The beasts rear up on their front legs, their jaws unhinging as they roar before they push off their back legs, running toward them. Their jaws are wide open, snarling and screeching, giving a voice to their bloodlust with spit that leaks through the spaces between their teeth to smear along the mangled fur along their faces. They’re claws beat against the ground and scrape along as they continue to move toward them. They slam into objects without care, the crowded street not making a difference to them.

“Shit,” and that’s Keith trying to stand, trying to move before he collapses back down, unable to move quickly or surely. The sweat on his face tells of his own anxiety at being unable to defend himself, the sickly color of his skin a testament to the pain he’s in and the blood loss he’s experiencing. It only shows how unprepared he is to face any of this.

They’re possibly not going to make it, they may actually lose their life and here Shiro is, frozen and unable to think because his mind is rearing up all these little memories that try so hard to stop him from moving. He has to move, he has to get up, he has to protect Keith and himself from the jaws of these scourge beasts that only seek to satisfy their hunger for blood.

His mind shuts down almost completely as the magic within his arm surges.

There’s a dull sound that he can hear, somewhere from within his head that has no place of origin that can be traced, but it’s there and pushes to the forefront of his mind.

He’s back there again, surrounded by mangled grass and uprooted dirt and blood down his arms and along his face that stares down the unseeing yellowed eyes of a beast that screeches with extended arms and claws poised to sink beneath his skin. It desires blood, it desires Shiro’s flesh, it wants to consume him and feast on all that he has to offer. Its form is unorganized as it is desperate to have the taste of flesh along its tongue.

Instead, Shiro reacts at the last moment as these beasts have an opening of weakness when they get ready to strike. He barely remembers his hand moving forward, he barely remembers the warmth of blood and flesh along his hands, he can barely remember how easily his hand went through the center of its chest and out the back that expels more flesh—

He’s back in the present as his legs move for him, using one arm to push Keith out of the way and scrambling to get his feet under him before he pushes forward. He ducks underneath one of the beasts, rolling and moving to the side and positioned behind one of the beasts. His mind is mostly blank as he’s reliving the motions of events passed, eyes locked onto the beast as it swirls around, bringing one arm up to swing it around and claws extended. Shiro bends at his knees, one arm coming down to steady himself as he drops toward the ground, narrowly avoiding the strike before he launches up.

His metal arm is singing in a way Shiro hasn’t figured out how to understand of know what it’s trying to do or tell him, but his mind doesn’t have the time to contemplate this. His fear of what this arm is, what it can do, and how it’s attached to him in a way that shouldn’t exist has been buried at the back of his mind, at the base of his skull, there to remain until his mind can process that the danger is gone and when his mind can stop suppressing his emotions and be able to deal with them.

He doesn’t really notice the way his arm glows, that white glow with a blue tint to it that lights along his arm, but he thrusts it upward as his knees unfurl, fingers outstretched and wide. The beast snarls again, trying to reorient itself but it’s too slow and Shiro is too close as that hand grabs onto the beast’s face, hand closing around it and the arcane magic within his hand reacting, surging forward—

His hand crushes the beast’s face, blood and brain matter pushing out of the splinters of its skull, forced out in a violent spray that Shiro yanks his hand away as it still has a grip on it, barely feeling the snap of bones and splatter of blood along the ground as the beast’s arms flail, claws barely scratching at the ex-knight’s form before it stops and hits the ground, bouncing and limbs scattering and splaying along the ground.

Shiro’s mind comes back to itself as whatever memory has finally played itself out for him to blink and realize just what’s happened, eyes widening as he realizes that his body had just mimicked what had happened to him in that flashback. His hand is drenched in blood, his clothes splattered with them in bright display of the beast’s life all over him. He looks down at the mangled image of its head, or what’s left of it and to his hand, almost uncomprehending what he has just done.

He can’t dwell on it too much as he hears the sound of the other beast that’s snarling and remembering that—fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ —

 _Keith_ —

He’s moving before he knows it.

Keith is there without Shiro, injured and bleeding that will, no doubt, attract the beast to him. All he can think about is Keith between those jaws and teeth piercing into soft skin and rupturing everything within him that it’s all forced to leak onto the ground outside. He can see Keith in a pile of visceral and his own blood and innards, and he’s so uncomfortable by that image and refuses to accept it. He won’t let the one person who has saved his life and has decided to give him a chance regardless of how small it is, be killed in front of him. He will not let another death fall o his hands, he will not be weak and allow this to happen.

He doesn’t know what to do exactly but something is better than nothing at all.

He sees Keith, positioned behind an abandoned carriage that the beast is trying to get through, an arm pushed through broken glass and slashing at the inside, trying to get through. It’s trying so hard to get through, snarling as spit flies from its jaw, jagged teeth on display and ready to snap at the hunter. Keith is gritting his teeth but stares down the beast unwittingly, keeping his eyes on the beast. The scourge beast is locked onto Keith because of his blood that’s been exposed to the world, and it’s become hooked onto the smell and attracted to it.

He remembers from his captivity how those beasts crave blood so much. It was certainly a favorite of the Galra’s to see him go up against. They’re tenacious and have a strong perseverance for their single-minded goals to the point where death is the only way for them to stop. The aggressiveness they have towards achieving such means is to be admired in a way if it weren’t for the fact that it’s all motivated by the desire for human flesh. It’s certainly too favored among the Galra to put their captives up against.

He doesn’t remember very much how to deal with them and the speed they possess, knowing that it’s at inopportune moments that he slips back into those memories that seem to be the way he deals with fighting monsters these days, but he needs to retain a sense of awareness to remember how to defeat them instead of relying on when he slips back into a memory. He needs to think, he needs to figure out how to fight one without needing help.

This is what he asked Keith of, to show him how to defend his own without relying on others.

He’s very out of shape when it comes to utilizing his mind for tactics as he only really remembers constantly fighting trough strength, but somewhere in there, he must have the intelligence to survive or else he wouldn’t have made it through captivity. It must be the physical fights he remembers the most since they have left the most impact on him. He must have some kind of cunning, he must possess some kind of skills that led toward him figuring out how to stay alive.

Think, think,  _think_.

Their bellies are their weakest parts, often kept toward the ground and never exposed unless they’re about to launch themselves at someone. When they push themselves up on their hind legs and ready to launch forward is when they are at their most vulnerable even when they’re executing their most powerful attack. He can’t rush in there to get to Keith and hope to subdue the beast. The element of surprise isn’t held very long when it comes to these monsters as they’re quick to react, the window for surprises small and almost non-existent.

Shiro looks around, the franticness of his mission pushing him to be quicker than what he’s used to, but he finds a bottle on the ground. He thinks—they’re attracted to blood, they want flesh, and this gives him an idea.

He grabs the bottle and breaks it, looking up to see if the beast has noticed the sound but it doesn’t. still focused on getting to Keith. It’s trying to climb in through the window, rattling the carriage and tearing it apart even more. Keith has pushed back, his back against the base of the railing that’s lining the streets, his face still tense.

Shiro looks down at the bottle and steps forward as he takes the bottle and digs it into his hand, exposing the blood underneath and smears it along the bottle, wincing at the pain and at the idea of possible infection, but he has a plan. Shiro gets closer before he throws the bottle across the distance between him and the beast, shattering off to the side, pieces flying in many directions as it catches the beast’s attention. It stops, sniffing at the air before it reacts in a violent way, trying to push out of the carriage and to investigate the smell of new, fresh blood. This is Shiro’s chance.

The beast growls against as it scrambles after the smell, pushing through the broken window, cutting itself in the process and smearing its own blood along its fur and inside the carriage. It wriggles out and falls to the ground in an ungraceful attempt to keep going, not bothering to catch itself as it scrambles toward the bottle, nails scratching against the ground in an effort to gain traction as it gets to the bloody shards on the ground. It then snarls again, its mouth opening and leaning forward to grasp at the shards on the ground, tongue pushing against the shards as it attempts to each the shards, trying to get the blood that’s on them.

Shiro would be repulsed at its need for human blood and the desperation and lengths it will go through to obtain it if he weren’t in the middle of trying to take down the beast. He looks down at his arm, hesitating but also knowing that he doesn’t have any other wea—

Oh, that’s right, Keith’s blade. He looks around for it, scanning the ground and trying to differentiate it from the number of objects strung around (geez, all these objects lying around loosely gives Yharnam such a cramped image and feeling). He sees it, lying on the ground a small distance from him ad makes a move to grab it, hoping the beast isn’t finished with trying to consume the blood of the broken glass. He runs toward the beast, Keith’s blade in hand, watching as the beast chews on the glass further, blood sliding down its mouth as it cuts into its gums, the cracking sounds of it shattering in its mouth creating an uncomfortable feeling within Shiro. The beast is making pained sounds as it tries to consume the blood and it’s only a matter of time before it stops and decides to go back to Keith who still must be bleeding, knowing it’s going to try to come after him soon.

Shiro runs toward it, and instead of fighting it, instead of cringing away from whatever thing is inside his body, he allows it come forwards. Shiro is still afraid of it, e’s still unsure about whatever magic was forced into his body without knowing what it could do to him, but it’s his, it’s in his body, and it looks to be here to stay for as long as possible. He’s still hesitant about it, Shiro still doesn’t know what its full potential is, but so far, it’s allowed him to defend Keith, it’s allowed him to raise his hand and use it in such a way that no mere human should be able to.

If he’s going to be stuck with this arm for the rest of his days, he’s going to utilize it and the potential it has. He doesn’t know how to control it and has shied away from wanting to acknowledge it, and by no means is this him accepting this arm and the burden that it represents, it being a manifestation of the pain and trauma that he has had to endure, but he needs this arm. He’s going to use it, Shiro will see that this arm that was forced upon is used for something other than trying to take away the lives of innocents. This engineering that the Galra spent time on to perfect into a weapon, no doubt, meant to conquer, will be put to use as something that will save people who are in need of it.

Trying to swallow down his hesitancy, the ex-knight extends his arm, moving it to his side and straightening out his arm as he lets the magic inside come forward. He can feel it traversing the arm in a way that unnerves him but Shiro doesn’t have the time to think about it. The glow is back, engulfing his arm and alight with a kind of power Shiro isn’t familiar with, but he’s going to take it and use it. Feet shifting before stepping forward, Shiro is running, Keith’s blade in one hand and the other extended.

The beast is now clawing at its mouth, spitting out blood but also trying to consume it in a self-cannibalizing way, shaking its head and making these aborted sounds, its tongue lolling in its mouth and unsure of what to do. Shiro uses that distraction to gain the advantage, raising Keith’s blade as he steps behind it, momentarily thinking about the largeness of this creature and how it would be so easy for it to overwhelm someone smaller and without any kind of experience in dealing with this creature. It must sense the closeness of his person because it turns around, teeth showing and covered in its own blood. Shiro also knows that it was his blood on the glass and that his cut hand must have the familiar scent to it. The beast knows his blood, has tasted it despite mixing with its own, and now will want to have more of it,

It snarls again, body tensing as it begins to move—Shiro is faster, raising Keith’s blade to thrust it forward and into the beast’s leg. The beast roars in pain, stumbling back in an effort to reorient itself, limping with the hunter’s blade still embedded in its body. The beast stalks backward, blood dripping from its mouth and the dull shine of a few shards embedded in its gums and between its sharp teeth. Shiro isn’t given any time to think about his next move as the beast sprints forward, growling and leaps forward, one arm moving out to swipe at Shiro’s body. Shiro ducks, nearly losing his footing, and moves forward to grab at the blade in its leg.

It’s an unfortunate misstep because Shiro finds himself stumbling, losing his footing as he still tries to make a grab for the blade. The beast shifts and turns its upper body to maneuver an attack, claws reaching out for Shiro. Raising into the air before it tries to bring it down on Shiro’s body. The ex-knight stumbles and the claws rain down beside him, slamming into the ground that seems so slowed down. He sees them hit the ground and slide against the stone, gauging marks into it as the scourge beast turns its body, angling itself to use the other arm—

It doesn’t and instead, launches itself at Shiro, jaws unhinging and opened wide as it tries to grab at Shiro with its teeth, strings of spit and blood connecting its teeth flying from its mouth with the putrid stench of its breath.

There’s no time to curse this decision as Shiro moves out of the way, trying to collect himself from his stumble and missing the opportunity to grasp at the blade in the beast’s leg. Shiro tries to put enough distance between them but the beast is fast, trying to follow him and snapping at him as it gives him no time to think about what he should be doing next. All Shiro can do is dodge it with the little amount of grace he’s shown to possess, not happy about having to stumble his way out instead of doing it gracefully like he would have in an event past. In that time, he would have had a sword in his hand, a shield in the other with his best polished armor but that’s no longer an option for him.

Instead, Shiro thinks quickly, looking around at the ground for some kind of distraction. He moves forward as he finds something, picking up a discarded metal crate with his metal arm as it possesses a strength that his other arm doesn’t, turning to throw it into the beast’s face. It stops for a moment to shake off what Shiro threw at it an obviously aggravated growl coming from it as it reorients itself to come after Shiro again. This has given Shiro the moment he needs as he puts more distance between it and himself, stepping back to figure out what he can down with the very small opportunity of time he has been given.

He got though his captivity with the Galra and has faced more creatures tan this single scourge beast and had lived through the ordeal, he certainly can figure out how to take this singular beast down.

It is already injured with Keith’s blade and he can see it favoring to displace its weight onto the other limbs and isn’t as fast as it normally is due to the pain it must be in, but it’s still making a valiant effort to kill him. He needs to get it into a position that will stagger it and be unable to react quickly. Shiro would think about that more if the beast hadn’t decided to launch forward, trying to regain its momentum as it tries to raise its arms to jump at Shiro. All Shiro can do is dodge to the side and roll away as it turns to swipe at him, cursing the beast’s fast reflexes and tracking. He can see how fighting more than one of these things would prove to be a very difficult effort.

He’s got distance but not very long as it moves again, trying to go with the ex-knight’s momentum as it’s jaws open wide, head tilting to get a better angle to close its teeth around him. Without thinking, Shiro raises his left arm, the magic coursing through it far away from his mind as he thrusts it forward, slamming his hand into the beast’s face, feeling an impact of flesh as it loses its footing and stumbles forward that has enough momentum to push Shiro back, tripping on his feet and falling. The beast seems to be too stunned to react to him and Shiro narrowly avoids being trampled over by the beast as it continues to move forward. He tries to scramble up as the beast moves over him, watching as it stops to shake its head, hissing and growling, and Shiro can see that he broke its jaw as it can’t close its mouth, jaw flopping around with its movements.

It’s a grotesque sight for Shiro despite all that he’s seen—some things just look worse despite what a person has seen, all that they’ve been through, ad seeing something that isn’t supposed to move that way, a body part that shouldn’t bend in many ways, it still creates an uncomfortable feeling down his spine.

The beast is in more pain, its attention now thoroughly divided as it tries to recover itself, snarling through its unhinged jaw and refocusing enough to reestablish Shiro as its target. Shiro crouches, knees bending as he readies himself again for the beast. The monster charges forward, jaw swinging and bouncing as it comes after him again as Shiro knows its slower due to the pain it must be in, noticing the limp it has because of the blade still within its flesh. He can possibly do it and it’s risky without a weapon, but he can make this if he gets just close enough.

He steps forward, stopping, trying to goad the beast into getting on its hind legs, knowing it’s a huge gamble as he’s sure the beast is going to avoid putting weight on its legs. He looks for an opening, knowing that he should get onto its injured side where it won’t be able to pivot fast enough to catch him with a swipe of its arm. Wen the beast is in enough distance, he moves to the side quickly, and as he predicted, the beast tries to attack him without putting weight on its leg, leaving Shiro just the opening he needs.

He reaches for the knife and darts forward, pushing the blade forward in hopes of slicing through its flesh, blood pouring freely from the wound as the beast cries out in pain, a wounded sound from its mouth as it staggers and nearly trips on itself. It’s off balance and kilter, stumbling and trying to get itself back up into an attacking position. Shiro turns around, knowing the beast is still going to attack despite its state, knowing these are persistent monsters and needs to take advantage of this momentary weakness.

The ex-knight moves forward as the beast hasn’t fully turned around, coming at its side as he thrusts the blade forward, piercing its side and twisting the knife, hearing the howl of pain and the beast jerking away, trying to pivot and swing and arm at him but Shiro moves away just in time. The attack is easily avoidable as its slowed down considerably but still determined for Shiro’s blood. While its wounded and slow, the scarred man takes a breath, bringing his left arm up and letting the arcane magic flow through it, trying to concentrate it, unsure if he’s actually doing it right but not allowed to take the time to figure it out. His feet shift before he’s moving forward, bringing that arm out and pulling it back before he flattens his palm, fingers pressing together and creating a knife-edged hand.

He’s yelling, he’s sure of it, if by the feeling I his throat is true, but all he can see is the beast, the same one that tried to attack Keith, that tried to feast on his flesh, and he only sees something that has to be eliminated. Who knows how long it has been alive, how many others that it has closed its jaw around but it has to be taken down, and it can’t be allowed to continue to breath.

It happens quickly were Shiro was standing away from the beast, watching in a kind of muted speed where it turns around to face him, bottom jaw wide open, its wide, yellowed eyes trained on him as Shiro thrusts his hand forward and into its mouth, hand piercing through flesh and breaking through sharpened teeth, pushing through bone and blood following his hand as it continues to make its way through. Shiro yanks his hand out and away, blood flying with his hand and spraying against the ground as the beast flails just briefly before falling to the ground, blood flowing freely out of its ruined skull.

His breath is heavy, his chest expanding and concaving so quickly, as he stares down at the collapsed beast, its life pouring out of it so freely to collect on the ground below it to mark its grave. Its eyes have lost the faint glow of it, empty and lifeless that gazes out straight ahead at nothing. The beast is in ruins and assured that it cannot recover from this.

Shiro’s hand is gripping around the blade, squeezing it harshly that Shiro has to consciously let go of and to let it hang loosely in his hand. He breathes, trying to come back to himself and out of that darkened and narrowed pathway that Shiro had found himself trapped in. It’s with that he vaguely notes the shaking of his arms, the tremble in his legs, the blood that finds its way along his body that paints the image of something ready to collapse on itself and make a mess around it.

It takes a conscious thought for him to move, to tear his eyes away from the mess that is left of the scourge beast, turning away and finding himself hunching over slightly, breathing quickly and heavily, eyes widening as his tries to move.

Surely, he can’t be now having a kind of breakdown so soon after saving himself and Keith.

He’s not had this kind of reaction for so long, where it only has traces at the beginning of his time as a knight, where a sword was wobbling in his hand and his knees bit into the ground and a kind of helpless fear that had drained into his body to drown his lungs. He should be used to having a risk upon his life, he should be used to fighting for his freedom and the carnage that has no choice but to follow him along his path and leaving messy trails behind him. There’s a lot out there that imposes a challenge to him and his life and that it thinks it can best him and deserve his blood in its hands.

Trying to shake himself off and to clear his head, he looks forward, his eyes searching as he sees Keith, still in his position, back pressed against stone and holding himself close, tense and watching. It’s obvious he hasn’t moved as Shiro remembers that Keith is injured and was unable to help Shiro or himself.

Gripping at Keith’s blade, he walks forward, his steps heavy, his body coming down ad growing heavier with every step he takes to get to the other man. Shiro vaguely notes that Keith doesn’t have his mask on, his braid is messy, his face is exposed—where did his mas go, he sort of remembers that Keith had it with him. Did Keith not put on the mask when they were finished with their sparring? Did something happen for Keith to not want to put it back on? All these little thoughts are spiraling through Shiro’s head as his mind tries attempts to right itself and to distract from the near overwhelming feelings that are trying to scatter his mind. It’s a distraction he’s welcome to in order to keep himself from thinking about how truly his life was in danger.

It’s when he’s standing in front of Keith, noting the way blood is smeared behind Keith, and the tense way he’s holding himself does Shiro try to break the silence. Shiro kneels down, trying to get eye level with Keith who tracks him with his eyes, trained on him in such a way that Shiro thinks he’d be without clothes with how exposed it makes him want to feel.

“Are you alright, Keith?” and wow, that is his voice, a thickened kind of thing that’s so much calmer than the way he’s feeling.

Keith’s mouth twitches, his jaw ticking. “I will be.”

It’s not quite the answer that he wants to hear, so he tries to push with, “you’re injured, Keith. We were both caught off guard—”

“I should have known, I should have been the one to protect us. Instead, I made a fucking rookie move that nearly cost us our lives.”

“You could not have known—”

“I  _have_  to know, Shiro,” and there’s venom within those words, “I have to be prepared for all manner of beasts. Being unprepared for anything means death, it means someone gets killed. A hunter needs to be ready for everything or else we would never survive.”

Keith’s looking away from him, his gaze sharp and angry, struggling with the idea that he was taken off guard by such a situation that neither of them could have predicted. Yes, there is danger, but there’s danger everywhere, anything can possess the threat of lethal and fatal intentions but not everything can be calculated in an effort to be prepared for it. It is impossible to know what will happen and how to stop it, but this is something that isn’t recognized within Keith’s conscious.

“You could’ve been killed,” and that refocuses the taller man’s attention. Keith still isn’t looking at him, “I could have watched you die and not have been able to do anything. What sort of hunter lets others die for them?” Keith’s gaze turns back him, obviously unhappy and exposed in a way that Shiro hasn’t seen before.

“You can’t possibly know all of that,” Shiro lets himself go to his knees, sitting back on his haunches as he surveys the injured man in front of him. “You can’t blame yourself for everything that’s not in your control. Don’t be so hard on yourself— _I_ chose to risk my life for  _you_. I wouldn’t let myself abandon you because I was in danger.”

“You should have left me, Shiro. I couldn’t fight to help you if you were to truly be injured. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you would have died for me.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow and his fist clenches. “Tell me then, would you have left me if I were injured and in need of help?”

It’s dirty but it gets the point across as Keith’s jaw clenches. His eyes are challenging as, “it’s not the same.”

“Oh, how is it not?”

“I am a hunter it’s my duty to not let anyone be hurt by beasts.”

“And you think it to not be  _my_ duty to try to help someone who is hurting?”

Keith doesn’t reply, choosing silence.

“Hunters aren’t any different from people. They are good, they want to help—I want to help, and it is of my own freewill to do that. I will help you as you have helped me, Keith.”

“Even if that means dying to help me?”

There’s something that flicker within the depths of those lilac irises, something that is brief that Shiro would miss it if he were further away. He has a feeling that something is exposed, something with the way Keith’s voice demands a conviction from Shiro even though it makes no such demands for him to confirm anything. A quality in his voice, in his actions, something that Shiro feels the need to reassure despite not knowing what he is supposed to do in the first place.

“I will.”

Perhaps it is the knight in him that hasn’t truly lost his way that this honor-bound conviction is coming from that hasn’t been extinguished, maybe it’s the feelings of attraction he has for Keith and his need to assure the other man, or perhaps it is the inherent goodness that he has always possessed regardless of the situation, but he wants to make sure that Keith knows that he will not let Keith down no matter what the circumstance is.

Keith stares at him for a moment longer, his eyes roving his face, an all-consuming intensity that reflects within their depths before it’s gone and no trace of it is left. Instead, Keith leans his head back, sighing heavily, and his eyes gazing above him. “This is the second time you’ve saved my life. You don’t listen to others when they tell you to do something. But... you have even more of my thanks.”

The corners of Shiro’s mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile that want to form as he stands up and offers a hand to Keith. “Would it not be me if I were to?”

There’s a sigh from Keith’s nose as what he thinks are the brief workings of a smile at the edges. “I would suppose not.” Keith reaches out one hand, the one Shiro believes is to not be where his injures are and allows Shiro to pull him up. As he watches the struggles of the other man at trying to conceal just how much he’s hurt, Shiro decides to take matters into his own hands. It’s probably the smaller man’s pride at work that stops Keith from truly asking for help, for a shoulder to lean on, and Shiro’s going to do what he can to correct that.

The ex-knight reorients himself as he brings Keith’s arm closer to him, bringing his arm up and over his head and pulling the other man forward. He gets Keith’s arm around his shoulder as he presses Keith’s body toward him, hearing the protesting noise that Keith makes as he gets an arm around the smaller man’s waste, feeling the tenseness of the body beneath his hands.

“There’s no need for this. I’m fine on my own—”

“Accept my gratitude this time and let me help you further. There is no shame to be had when in need of help.”

It’s unlikely that Shiro would have headed Keith’s request to not be helped and very well may have fought Keith if he didn’t want to accept Shiro’s help, and perhaps he’s just lucky because Keith is injured and not willing to put up as much of a fight that he normally would, but the taller man is happy that Keith is letting him.

 

 

\--

 

 

They don’t go back to Allura’s as Keith had let it be known that they’re closer to Pidge’s place as they had traveled a bit more of a distance to find that secluded area from other people to practice sparring with each other. Shiro agrees to it but not without feeling that jealousy spring forth within the bottom of his stomach. He doesn’t want to develop such negative feelings toward Pidge as it’s so unbecoming of a person that is Shiro’s nature, letting his own petty feelings interfere with what he knows is the right thing to do. Shiro knows it’s not Pidge’s fault, it’s not Keith’s fault, it is of Shiro’s own pure selfishness that drives his feelings to react like this.

They make their way to Pidge’s place, the lamp hanging outside of her door lit, open for business which Shiro is sue she’s going to close as soon as she sees the state they’re both in. When they both walk inside, Pidge’s voice rings out, “if you’re here the new model clocks, there is a wait list—”

The voice cuts off in a sharpened breath, a near shrill, “Keith, what has happened?!” before the sound of thudding footsteps become closer as Pidge scrambles out of her chair toward them.

“Hello to you, too, Pidge.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, Keith.”

Shiro glances a look at Keith who has the light dusting of a grin on his face and Shiro wants to gaze at it furtheFr, wants to look closer at it but there are more important things at hand.

 _Like how they’re more than just friends,_  is a nasty little voice just behind his ear that’s a low whisper.

She gazes up at them, her small stature making it hard to believe that she can be fierce, but she only sighs, looking to Shiro. “What tried to do him in this time?”

“I’m right here, Pidge,”

Shiro only laughs; it’s an airy sound that contrasts to the worry that is expressed within Pidge’s form. “I believe it to be both of us to blame. We weren’t paying attention to enough around us.”

“I am going to assume you broke your blood vials?”

Keith’s jaw grits as his lips thin, eyes darting to another place and, dare Shiro say, the beginnings of a pout that lightly dusts against his facial features. It would be cute if it weren’t for the severity of the question as well as the familiar tone that slicks those words. Pidge sighs, turning around and walking toward her desk. She bends forward a little, hands opening a drawer and rummaging through the contents. The clink of bottles sounds through the shop before Pidge leans back. She steps away from the desk and walks back around, her hands carrying a blood vial in each hand.

She steps back to them, thrusting out her hand as, “this isn’t the first this has happened, and I know it won’t be the last. He knows that It’s dangerous, but this stubborn fool won’t listen to me.” Keith accepts them without comment, lifting it to his mouth to bite at the cork that keeps the contents inside, spitting out as he leans his head back to consume it. That red glow, that mist-like appearance shows for a brief moment as it dissipates just as fast. Keith tugs at his arm at Shiro has a grip on, signaling for Shiro to let go as he is reluctant to allow Keith to stand on his own.

Keith sighs, face grimacing as the taste of it doesn’t look to be anything spectacular before he takes in the second vial, another grimace gracing his face as the same red smoke appears, gone as fast as it came. Keith shakes himself off, rolling his shoulders and craning his neck. He takes a step forward only to stumble that causes Shiro to step out and offer support at the same time that Pidge moves forward. It would be comical, Shiro thinks, if Pidge were to catch Keith, seeing her size try to support Keith’s size.

“Are you okay, Keith?” is concerned from Shiro, watching as Keith recovers himself.

“Blood vials heal injuries,” Keith begins, grunting as he tries to stand up, “bit they don’t replenish blood lost.”

“I thought they did. You were fine the last time I saw you take them.”

“If you catch your injuries quick enough, you can heal without losing much blood and be fine.”

“Maybe somewhere in that fool brain you have, it’s telling you that you need to rest,” is somewhat indignant from Pidge, and Shiro would have to agree with her. Keith doesn’t seem to be taking any of it to heart ( _Of course he wouldn’t_ , is a soured voice,  _look who he’s dealing?_ ) but he is trying to keep upright before he gives up to move himself over toward the chair that Shiro had seen earlier, ambling toward it with less grace than what is usually at the heel of his feet. Shiro follows him further into the shop, coming up the desk Pidge sits at to set down Keith’s mask.

Keith sinks into the chair without care, resting himself as his chest moves a bit faster, giving way to how much Keith is actually tired instead of hiding behind the façade of an image of unaffected ease.

Pidge is standing in their previous spot before she sighs again (it seems to be a habit when it comes to dealing with Keith) and crosses her arms. “I suppose that I’m not going to have people over while you’re here trying to rest.” With that, she turns on her heels as her arms uncross, walking toward the door, hand reaching out to grab a small ladder (huh, he didn’t know that was there) as she opens the door. She must be putting out the lamp in front of her door to tell people that she is open for business. Pidge returns a moment later, putting the ladder back into its original spot.

“I think I can do without patrons tonight,” and Pidge passes by Shiro, stopping to give Keith a look, “you owe me for this, for letting you stay here without rent,” and this causes Keith to chuckle lightly, leaning forward as he sets his chin in his hand, elbow propping up on one knee, “I would be lost without it, would I not?”

Pidge shakes her head, losing the sternness that she had carried mere moments ago. “You’re lucky I consider you a close friend or your welcome would be overstayed.”

Oh? Was that—

Shiro doesn’t think about anything else as his mind focuses on those words, everything around him dulling into an interesting color, monochrome as those words become the splash of color within his mind, focused and sharpened as they’re turned over and tested against his tongue.

Close friend.

Close friend.

 _Close friend_ —

Shiro can’t think about the severity of that statement and how it moves so much within him when the door creaks open, his body tensing as maybe there’s a robbery going to happen. It wouldn’t surprise Shiro too much since Pidge seems to work in a business that can be seen as lucrative with all these machine inventions that are lying around. However, he’s a little dismayed at the idea of having to possibly fight off someone who may be desperate for money and has gone down the wrong path.

Pidge stands up straighter, her eyes narrowing as she’s about to say something that is probably along the lines of the person entering to leave but stops short when she sees just who it is.

It’s Lance and Hunk, walking in without much care (on Lance’s part, that is) and not heading the sign of the store being closed.

“Hey, Pidge, we were around decided to have a visit,” is a jovial sound from Hunk, the sound warm and welcoming.

Lance is about to say something, probably something that’s of the same flavor as Hunk until he stops, his eyes staring behind the ex-knight and mouth twisting with distaste. “Aw, Keith is here,” Lance seems to whine, “why does he have to be here when we visit? I swear, he is following us, Hunk.”

“You wish,” Keith deadpans.

“I certainly do not.”

“Lance, come on, do try to be civil. We’re just visiting dear Pidge,” and Hunk is trying to be placating, putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder and leaning in, giving Lance a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek. It does a lot to deflate Lance’s antagonism, his shoulders hunching and sighing. “Okay, fine, I will not even though it is clear Keith is jealous.”

“Lance.”

“Quieting down now.”

Hunk shifts his attention, noticing Shiro as a big grin splits his face. “Oh, it’s you, from the tavern! Shinto, was it?”

“Shiro.”

“Yes, Shiro, I am glad to see you better—oh, and wearing different clothes! I must say, those outsider clothes didn’t suit you.”

Shiro laughs, reaching up to scratch at the hair on the back of his head. “It certainly feels good to not be stared at as an outsider even though I am.”

“Well, you’re not an outsider to us.”

“Certainly not,” Lance chimes in. “You’re much cooler than anyone else we have met.”

Shiro laughs again.

Lance and Hunk take a step forward before they stop, looking over Shiro with twin looks of confusion and surprise and that’s when Shiro realizes that yes, he has been walking around with scourge beast blood on him and probably staining his clothes. He does so hate the idea of asking Allura for new clothes possibly.

“Um,” and there’s a curious but nervous lilt to Hunk’s voice, “hey, Shiro, what happened to you?”

“He and Keith ran into some trouble and Keith got hurt,” is Pidge’s voice from behind him, booming through the shop.

“ _Really?_ ” and Lance sounds positively  _delighted._

Hunk elbows him.

Lance grunts, shooting Hunk a look before he clears his throat. “I mean, that’s still terrible.”

“He and I were ambushed by two scourge beasts,” and Shiro keeps his voice soft, noting the twin looks of surprised horror that comes over the other two men’s faces. Lance looks like he does regret what he just said and the tone of voice he took when learning of their injuries’ origins. “We didn’t see them, but Keith saved me by pulling me away from them. He took the brunt of one of their attacks—got him along the back and shoulder.”

“Scourge beasts are nasty things to deal with,” Hunk says in a knowing voice, embedded with an experience that regrets any kind of encounter with one. “They’re fast and aggressive, they don’t know of fear and just keep coming until they’re dead.”

“Keith wasn’t able to defend us with his injuries—”

“Surely, he used a blood vial and took care of both? I mean, it is hard to fight just one, but two is a challenge by yourself,” interjects Lance.

Shiro shakes his head. “They were crushed in his coat when he pulled me away and we both landed on the ground.”

“Then, how did—”

“I saved us both.”

And there it is, the looks of disbelief. Lance’s eyes squint as he raises a hand and points at Shiro. “How did you manage to do that? I remember that you had told us that you were saved by Keith not very long ago?” He seems to catch himself, bringing up both hands in a placating gesture, “I mean no offense by that.”

“None taken,” is understanding from Shiro because he, too, finds it difficult to believe. Keith is a skilled hunter, has had more time to hone and practice his abilities to defend himself and anyone else he so chooses while Shiro is still trying to piece himself back together from what has happened to him. It is a fair assessment, Shiro supposes even though his pride wants to balk at that, but he understands where they’re coming from

“I was able to pull myself together to launch an attack on them. One had gone after Keith and the other decided I was a better fit target. Keith had gotten behind an abandoned carriage and decided it would try to go through it to get to Keith. It held off the beast long enough. I had gotten lucky as I used the magic in this arm,” and he lifts it, feeling all eyes in the room fall upon it, and Shiro feels a lesser urge to hide it from their prying eyes than what he normally feels.

It’s small steps like this that is helping to normalize its existence but is in no means making it feel more acceptable to Shiro. He doesn’t quite know if he’ll ever be okay with its presence.

“I got a lucky shot, and I knew that Keith was in trouble. I was able to take it down, remembering my time from… before, and when I was one of the leaders for the knights for Cainhurst,” and that certainly will draw questions from the other two men, “and I defeated the beast, as you can see it is all over my clothes,” and he gestures to himself.

“Keith, you went that long without a blood vial? Bleeding out and in danger of not being able to defend yourself?” and at that, Keith looks a little irritated, unwilling to answer in full detail, but he’s got his eyes closed, arms crossed (that seems to be a thing for him, Shiro notes) as suggesting that he’s closed off, not willing divulge very much.

“Shiro saved my life. There’s nothing to worry about; it’s over and in the past.”

“But still,” Hunk tries, his voice concerned, “what if you didn’t make it? What if—”

“There’s no point in entertaining a what if when it won’t happen. It’s done and over with.”

“Just because it happened and was avoided doesn’t mean it won’t happen again,” comes Pidge’s voice, a mixture of irritation and concern that are warring with each other. Shiro has to agree but he doesn’t need to voice what everyone else is trying to say, feeling the redundancy of it all having no affect.

“There’s no need to think about it. Fretting over it won’t change that it didn’t happen.”

“Well, we’re still going to fret over you, Keith,” and Hunk moves forward, pushing past Lance, going by Shiro and placing himself in front of Keith. It’s quick, the larger man leaning down and grasping at Keith’s arms, hauling him up. There’s a noise of protest and a jolt from his body, eyes wide as he was clearly not expecting this. Hunk pulls Keith in and hugs him, larger arms wrapping around the smaller man and keeping him locked within a hug.

“We about you, Keith. We just want you to be safe.”

“I am safe,” and it’s strained. “Hunk, you’re hugging m—”

“I know you’re grumpy and hate hugs—”

“And anything fun,” Lance supplies.

“But I’m worried about you and I want to show that you’re my friend and I care about you.”

Keith looks to be regretting the hug, trying to squirm away from It has he has this aversion to touch, but Hunk doesn’t let go, his thick arms wrapped securely around the smaller man. There are footsteps behind as Lance is moving, coming toward them and also joining in on the hug.

“You may be grumpy as all hell and a pain to deal with,” Lance begins, his voice holding a kind of stubborn reluctance to it, “but you’re a friend and we care about you as much as you don’t want to believe it.”

“It is very hard for him to accept,” Pidge nods, her voice this sage-like quality. “He’s just very stubborn.”

“Believe me, I know,” Lance mutters.

Hunk lets go of Keith, setting him back down on the ground (Shiro hadn’t even noticed that Hunk had lifted Keith like that in the first place) and stepping away, a wide grin stretched over his lips at Keith’s soured look for being touched like that, but Shiro can see that his body isn’t tense or hostile like his look wants to convey. Pidge has returned to her desk, waving her hand around as that machine (Rover, was it?) that’s infused with arcane magic hovers around her hand. It’s such an odd sight to see, a machine working of its own volition, following orders as though it contains its own freewill. Her chin is placed into her hand, tilted at an angle with a content smile on her face as she watches the machine twirl around her hand, reacting to different commands that Shiro isn’t aware of.

“You have to be more careful about your blood vials,” is Hunk’s voice with concern etched into it, “those things can be tricky to keep hold of.”

“We know this, Hunk, you’ve lost some panic before,” Lance’s voice interrupts Hunk.

“Well, it’s not my fault they’re so small. My hands are kind of big,” and Hunk waves his hands around. “Maybe if they were in larger bottles, we would not have this problem.”

“Excuses, Hunk. I’ve had to carry you many distances because you dropped a blood vial in panic and blamed it on its size.”

“Hey!” Hunk’s voice is indignant. “You know I get nervous a lot and the size of the vials do not help.”

“There seems to be a story behind this,” Shiro says, putting his feet forward and walking further into the shop. He finds an empty space on the couch, allowing his body to relax and sit down. He’s been meaning to allow himself the proper time to let his body calm down. He’s riding a post-adrenaline and fear-induced energy that has nearly leeched away his motivation. He’s trying to calm down without any visible crashes that would signal someone’s concern and create a needless reaction. The ex-knight exhale slowly to control the tempo of his heart and pull it back toward an acceptable rate.

“Oh, there is definitely a story behind this,” Hunk shoots Lance an unimpressed look, “since he has a habit of dropping the vials and breaking, and that is precious blood that we could have used when in a fight. But no,” and Lance stretches out the word ‘no’, “you have to drop it and before we know it, there is a Loran silver beast on our tail and you’re unable to lift your ax because I have to drag you away—and believe me,” Lance looks at Shiro, raising his hand, fingers curling into a fist while he points his thumb at Hunk without looking at his boyfriend, “he is not light and dragging him around while unconscious does no man any favors.”

“Not all of us can be a small man like you.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true,” Keith comments as he has also say back down, not looking at Lance.

“I am taller than you, Keith, you cannot lecture me.”

“We’re the same build, you have nothing to say.”

“He is right, Lance,” Hunk supplies. “And you’re barely taller than him, which still, it isn’t very much of a height difference. It’s practically non-existent.”

“Hunk, you betray me. I hope you find the floor comfortable as our bed is tonight.”

“Aw, come on, it’s only a little fun,” and Hunk brings up an arm to sling around Lance’s shoulder, leaning into him, “it’s all in good nature.”

This does little to placate the man, but he does deflate enough. He sighs, turning a dejected look toward the ceiling. With that, Hunk looks back to Shiro and Keith. “But really, we’re glad you’re both alright. It could have been worse, and I will still worry about you both, but it’s good to see it all worked out.”

“Yeah, don’t go dying on us, that means I will win our rivalry and I know how much you hate to lose.”

The look Keith has is unimpressed. “He likes to think of us locked into a competition that requires us to best each other.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Shiro hasn’t forgotten about his arm.

He’s still unsure of it, he’s still floundering for information on it as Allura had only given him some information that even she seemed to have a hard time gathering. Pidge could only tell him that it was a masterful craft of work and just how much she would like to know the engineer who created such a piece. She was more interested in the gears in the elbow and the sleek metal that was used to create it than she was about the arcane magic that was infused into the metal for it to be able to work. He can’t actually allow the small auburn-haired woman to take a tool to it and dismember just enough of it to see what’s inside since he doesn’t know enough about it to really let her explore it.

After having to physically pull Pidge away from wanting to inspect it and inquire about it, Keith tells him that they’re going to go to Yharnam’s library in search of possible material that could help them.

“There has to be more information there that we can use,” he explained when brought up the point. “No doubt there must be information about the abandoned tunnels and the seals that are used to protect them. You never know, there could be something useful there.”

The library isn’t too far, about forty-five minutes from Pidge’s place if they keep a good stride going.

It’s midday in the afternoon, where the sun is casting more yellow hues that begin to infringe on orange, signaling sunset is close. Shiro appreciates the view in ways he never knew he could, knowing the feeling that settles within his chest is a longing that comes from a lack of something for so long. Even though Shiro doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s been able to indulge in watching the sky transition colors, the feeling inside his body tells him that it’s been so long even though he can’t remember how long it’s been.

They’ve maybe walked about halfway the distance when Shiro asks, “I have been meaning to ask, but how did you know you were to become a hunter?”

From what Shiro has learned, Keith isn’t very open with his own personal knowledge of himself. Keith is very much a closed book, hiding his own text and all the information within those pages away from curious eyes that desire to know so much more than what the outside cover suggests. Keith is closed off in many ways that makes Shiro curious to know what has happened within the other man’s past to cause such a reaction and a desire to keep himself distanced from others. Shiro has seen his fair share of knights that have experienced something that is so tragic within their past that has forced them to believe the only way to go through life is through being closed off and not allowing others to help them. The ex-knight has seen others try to emulate a solitary existence and refuse to seek any kind of help that they desperately desire, and Keith mimics those movements and thoughts almost precisely. The scarred man tries his best he really does, to help encourage them to seek out another’s advice and ear to tell them of their woes and how it and lift the burden that they’ve take on within their souls.

He hopes that Keith has found a better calling in his life that maybe the hunting lifestyle has given him.

“You don’t have to answer, I understand it can be a painful thing to remember. I’m just merely curious about what it is that made you want to be this way.”

Keith is still silent and Shiro is unable to see how Keith is reacting to his inquiry as that beak mask is held in place and keeping any kind of feelings Keith has hidden under it. Keith’s silence is a testament that Keith may not be wanting to answer this and Shiro is ready to drop it.

He’s just, for the lack of better wording, a little weary of these complete silences. Keith certainly isn’t a very talkative and Shiro himself isn’t always looking to fill the silence with small talk about nothing, but he would like to be able to talk to Keith at times without barriers between them.

“If you like, I can talk about the knights of Cainhurst when I was with them?”

It’s another moment of silence and Shiro feels a little dismayed at Keith’s refusal to add his input but that doesn’t deter him.

“I told you about my father before,” and oh, Keith is actually talking. “He was a good man, took care of me and watched out for me. He did what he could for me, for him, he did his best with what we had.”

There’s a different path this is going to take, Shiro is sure of it.

“I don’t know what truly happened. He didn’t come home from the factory. They said it was an accident and that one of the machines failed. Someone was hurt and ran back in to help save them. I was put into an orphanage and was there for the rest of my childhood.”

Shiro doesn’t know quite what to say and though that has been many years past, he still feels the need to offer condolences.

“I am sorry to hear that. Your father sounds like a good man, a hero.”

Shiro can’t see the expression that’s on Keith’s face—that mask is truly becoming bothersome and his fingers itch with the urge to remove it just so he can actually see the signs on Keith’s face if he’s receptive to something or not. His entire attire seems to be made for concealing his body language and keeping him hidden from the world as much as possible. It is highly cumbersome.

“He was,” is Keith’s soft voice, muffled by the mask to the point where Shiro would have missed it if he were further away. “It took me a long time to accept him being gone and leaving me alone. I was a child that didn’t know better and was unprepared to live without him.”

Shiro gazes out ahead of him, allowing his thoughts to wander somewhat, thinking over the image of Keith as a child, scared and alone, and he feels the ache in his chest grow to a dull throb. It’s a similar story to many children forced to grow up on the streets and without help. It’s a sad way to see someone so vulnerable and young to live like that but Shiro knows that he cannot prevent this from happening throughout the world.

“I was in an orphanage, I grew up there during my childhood. It wasn’t ideal, I know now, but it was all I had left to turn to. But one day—” he stops to catch a breath that Shiro can faintly hear inhaled through the mask, “—there were scourge beasts that had broken through the fence as a few of the children had carved out holes in the back to sneak out. Some of the kids were awake and had opened the door to see what it was. I need not continue because you can guess as to what happened to them when the beasts saw them.”

There it is, the drop of emotion that collides into his stomach.

“I was sparred of them as I had hidden under my bed. I guess there was too much blood in the air for them to smell me, or even notice me as they consumed any child they could get to. It’s an image that has stayed with me for so long and I became a hunter to avenge them.”

There’s a lot of details that Keith must be omitting, whether it be for Shiro’s sake or his own, but it’s enough for him to understand the kind of gruesome past that follows Keith. He can understand the reluctance to share any of that for having to relive a night of fear such as that. This inspires a great deal of emotion to fill his chest and into his lungs to breathe in. and for that, Shiro is grateful for this amount of intimate details shared with him.

“Keith,” and his voice is soft, “I don’t know how to express how sorry I am that you went through that, but I am grateful that you shared your past with me.”

Shiro thinks Keith shrugged his shoulders since it’s hard to tell the hunter’s bodily language with that cape of feathers strung around his shoulders. Shiro steps out ahead, lengthening his stride before he pivots, turning to place himself in front of Keith to stop the other man. Keith’s head cranes upward, the beak of the mask rising as the taller man is sure he has the other man’s attention.

“I am serious. Thank you for letting me know this, for trusting me enough to tell me this.”

There is a silence between them and Shiro is hoping that Keith takes this to heart no matter how little he chooses to take in. It’s still a mighty gesture of trust that Shiro doesn’t take lightly, especially knowing Keith’s position on how he views the world around him, just knowing that he has deemed Shiro worthy enough, no matter how small it is, to be let into the small world that Keith inhabits, It’s trust, even though it seems like a small, indiscriminate move, it’s still a large step taken in a direction to evolving their relationship to a place where more comradery can grow.

“I am in your debt, Shiro. You have shown that you’re willing to do so much for my trust. I—” and he stops, his mask tilting away somewhat—oh, how the ex-knight longs to see what kind of expression is on the smaller man’s face, “—it’s the least I can do.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated to tell me anything, Keith. That is not how trust goes.”

“It’s my own choice, Shiro. I am choosing to tell you this.”

Shiro has other things to say, he has many more that are meant to assure Keith that these words must be given away with the choice to allow it to happen, it shouldn’t be expected, and secrets kept dear to one’s soul are only given when the trust between them is strong. Trust is so important to building their relationship if they are to be working together for a long time in order to help Shiro on this quest to discover what his arm truly is. He wants the hunter to feel comfortable, he wants Keith to feel like he can confide in Shiro at moment of the day and that won’t have to fear that Shiro will turn him away at the door.

He would tell Keith so much more, he would, but not when there are footsteps behind him and Keith’s body tensing as Shiro turns around to see just what it is behind them.

“Oh, isn’t this a quant sight to see.”

There stands a man with an imposing stature, certainly taller than Shiro’s own impressive height, that isn’t a considerable amount of distance away, but enough to see his face. This is a man who looks brutish, who looks fearsome, the bulk of his mass used for intimidation.

But it’s the voice, it’s the tone of that voice that sets off inside Shiro’s mind.

_“But I do believe the Church could benefit from this.”_

It’s the same voice that held a sword to his throat, pressing against the skin in an unspoken threat to his life, with promises of a fatal injury upon his weakened, broken body. It’s that voice that led to the downfall of his sanity, it’s the same voice that had brought him to those monsters that are known as the Galra, that faction within the Healing Church that has become more drastic in seeking the things that desire.

The same voice that led to him gaining this arm o arcane magic that writhes within his soul.

“I am sure you must remember me, dear  _Vileblood._ ”

The man,  _Sendak_ , a man tat Shiro can never forget the name of, stands before him, regal in his clothes, tall and large and as imposing as he did the night Shiro had laid in what he thought was to be his grave on that filthy, leave-strewn ground in his own blood. Sendak now stands before him, the very man who has subjected him to so much pain and torture is alive and breathing. Shiro’s blood is on this man’s hands, on his blade, his very people and knights that had fallen because of this of this man are all trapped because of Sendak.

His teeth grit, his hands clench and the roar of that magic within him springs to life, breathing into his arm that lights with that glow of arcane magic. He sees the way Sendak’s eyes—eye, he notes, with how Sendak’s right eye is unnaturally shiny and glass-like—widen as he takes in Shiro’s arm before a grin splits his face, roguish and sadistic as he is pleased, allowing himself to take one step forward as he must know his presence is what makes them tense and all the more alert. It’s very obvious he is enjoying this reaction from either of them, especially from Shiro as he had made a show about killing so many of the Vilebloods and knights that had served them. He had made no discrimination to what or whom he killed—anything that was associated with a Vileblood, whether it be nurses or maids and or visiting dignitaries were all slaughtered, all of their blood spilled along plush rugs and carpets and sprayed against the walls in a show of an indulgent, mad revenge.

“It looks like that arm actually worked. Many of the Galra believed it to be false that anyone could master that arm. Oh, how they were wrong.”

Shiro wants to hide this arm from Sendak, he doesn’t want Sendak to even gaze upon it, but there’s another part of him that wants to display it proudly to show that he has beaten the odds that were against his favor. He wants to show that he survived, that he was able to overcome, and that the Galra hadn’t broken him in the ways that they were seeking to.

“Although, I mist admit that I am surprised that you are alive. After you went missing weeks ago—” and this jars Shiro because he had no idea how long ago it was that he had escaped from the Galra, not having any idea how he did or what he did to be able to get away, but to know that it’s only been a short amount of time that he has been away from the Galra is enough to shake his foundation, “—and no one knew where you were, it was quite troublesome for the Galra.”

Sendak takes a step forward, his hands coming up to clasp behind him as his steps are slow, calculated, as he walks parallel to them, his head facing in the direction that he is walking as it tilts back. “You had many people upset about taking that fine machinery that spent so much time trying to craft. All that effort they put into seeking out the Old Blood and pieces let behind by the Great Ones that went into crafting that magic inside—all of it  _wasted._ ”

Sendak stops, his head tilting back down where his chin almost sits upon his chest. “You had many in a panic, wanting to know where their great weapon went. How could they achieve the Enlightenment they were desperately seeking without their means there?”

The large man stands there for a moment, a chuckle leaving his throat as he tilts his head back before he turns to both of them. “I am sure they would love to see you again, Shiro. Their beloved,” and he grins, a line of white teeth glinting, “ _Champion_.”

“I will not go back there, Sendak,” and Shiro’s stance prepares more for a move that will spring him into action, “I will not be the Galra’s weapon or tool or whatever that you’re planning.”

“It isn’t up to you, filthy  _Vileblood,_ ” and Sendak’s eyes narrow, his lip curling in disgust. “Your place is to serve the Galra and make up for the scum of your people that were cursed for their own doings,” and Sendak raises both arms up, spreading them as he reaches above him, “you were atoning for the crimes they have committed against mankind. This was your  _salvation_ , to make right of all the evil the Vilebloods have spread through the land with their cursed blood.”

Sendak lowers his hands, “serve the Healing Church, the  _Galra_ , and be absolved of your misdeeds. Perhaps you will be allowed to touch upon the a Great One when the Galra succeeds in making contact with them. It’s with that arm of yours, that arcane magic borne of the Old Blood and the Great Ones themselves, that we can achieve such means. Just come back with me, Shiro, and I promise to not do anything else. I will even leave your,” and he leans to the side, nose scrunching lightly as a look as disdain crosses his feature, “ _heretic_  alone in peace to live out the rest of his wretched days.”

There’s movement behind Shiro as Keith shifts, the sound of his blade drawing and it splitting into two blades.

“You think you can touch me with those flimsy little blades,  _Crow_?”

“Then come over here and fight me and we’ll see when these  _flimsy blades_  are cutting into your stomach.”

The look of disdain doesn’t leave his face, but his body is loose as Sendak seems to believe that there is no threat to his life, not taking either of them seriously. Instead, he straightens up, hands falling to his side as there’s a smirk on his face.

“Alright, I’ll tell you something, Shiro. How about we make a deal?”

Shiro doesn’t trust anything that Sendak says, but he has a feeling that Sendak isn’t going to listen to any kind of denial that he may have.

“How about this you and I will have a fight in a week. There we will determine what shall happen after that. If you win, you can go free, you won’t have to worry about the Galra coming after you. I will even spare that heretic behind you and let him live his cursed days out with no threat.”

Why does Sendak keep referring to Keith as a heretic? Keith has no tied to the Church, he doesn’t have anything to do with him, so why is Sendak so dead set on naming the hunter in a way that’s degrading?

“But,” and Shiro comes back to the situation at hand, “if I win, then you will come back with me to the Galra. You will serve the Galra, pledge your allegiance to the Empire and serve it to the last of your days. I think it to be fitting of a Vileblood—for you truly will look to be like you’re seeking salvation for the impurities of the Vilebloods. Think of it as saving yourself and your entire people from an eternity of damnation by the Lord himself.”

There has to be a catch to this, there isn’t something like this that is offered without any kind of strings attached to it. Deals like these always have some kind of hitch and Shiro has had enough experience to know that clean and cut deals like this won’t have some kind of betrayal behind it. He’s also dealing with the fact that this is a Vileblood hunter, part of the Executioners, a faction of the Healing Church dedicated to wiping out the Vilebloods that now apparently have fallen under the Galra. There is no way he’s going to let someone associated with the Vilebloods walk away without putting out some kind of hit on them.

There is a catch and he knows it, and he would be foolish to not expect something else unspoken to happen.

“And if I refuse?”

Sendak only lets his grin grow. “Well, I would think you have a preference for spending the rest of your life running from the Healing Church. I hear it’s a futile effort as the Church is everywhere.”

He also looks past Shiro and toward Keith and Shiro has the near overwhelming urge to step in front of Keith to shield him from the man’s gaze. Keith has nothing to do with the Church, but because of his association with Shiro, it’s more than likely that he is now a target of Sendak’s.

“I can also so choose to wipe kill that heretic behind you as he should have been years ago.”

“You know I’d never let get your hands on me, especially not Shiro, Sendak.”

“You’re an affront to the Healing Church, Crow, do not think for a moment that we’re not aware of your presence. We just don’t consider you a priority right now.”

“Leave him out of this, Sendak. He has nothing to do with this. He’s not part of this deal.”

There’s a look that crosses Sendak’s face as his mouth shapes into a smirk. “You really don’t know, do you, Shiro? Haven’t you noticed why he has those purple eyes? Something no human does?”

Shiro moves back a little, trying to make sure that Keith is protected and cannot be reached by Sendak. “It doesn’t matter what he is, he’s proven himself to be a good person.”

Sendak shakes his head. “But you must know, why would a human possess purple eyes? Why would a human be so unnaturally fast, how could a human like this exist without being created of something  _more_ than just human?”

It doesn’t matter to him, Keith’s status as a person has been proven to Shiro and he doesn’t care what Sendak is getting at, he doesn’t care for what kind of deceit that is planted within Sendak’s words, he knows Sendak’s words are always going to be poisoned by what the Galra sees as a threat to themselves. Anything and everyone that they believe to inhibit them from their goals are swiftly sought to be destroyed to never interfere with them again. It doesn’t matter what it is, they are all placed on a list to be destroyed and Shiro will not believe what Sendak wants to put into his head.

“I don’t care what he is, Sendak. What matters to me is not in your words about him. Leave it alone and we shall meet in a week to settle this.”

The look of contempt on the larger man’s face speaks what he thinks about Shiro’s decision to not learn more about Keith’s “supposed” past. “Very well, have it the way you like. We will meet in a week, in the Grand Cathedral. We will see if you are worthy of that arm the Healing Church rather foolishly gave you.”

Sendak begins to step forward, causing Shiro’s muscles to calcify and strung tight with tension but the other man doesn’t make his way over to them, only proceeds to walk toward a staircase that leads to the other side of their position. He stops on the first step, turning around, gazing at both of them before Shiro has a distinct feeling that Sendak is look straight at Keith.

“I look forward to being able to kill you like I should have done. Sparing you was a mistake even though the Healing Church praised such an action on my part. And,” he grins again, allowing his teeth to show through, “I can’t wait to see what kind of screams the Crow will make while on his knees, begging me for mercy.”

Keith steps forward, blades raised but Shiro stops him, grasping tightly onto the man’s feathers before he can go any further. They both watch as Sendak begins a descent down the stairs, throwing behind him, “I look forward to being able to kill you this time, Vileblood. Do not disappoint me.”

It’s moments after Sendak having departed that Keith deflated, taking a moment to merge his blades together again and stowing it away on his side. His entire presence speaks of a tiredness that Shiro can recognize is bone deep and weary, having been through it so many times that it feels so much easier to give and give into it to make it stop. Keith rights himself into a position where he stands straighter as he stares at the space where Sendak was before, staring at it and though the mask conceals what kind of emotions the hunter may be experiencing that would be appearing on his face, the taller man knows that Keith must be thinking about that deal that was made.

“Is this really something you want to do, Shiro?”

There’s an emotion in Keith’s voice that’s concerned for the choice that Shiro has made.

“I don’t really have any choice.”

“Everyone has a choice, including you.”

He sighs, his body deflating. “I know, but this is mine alone. I have to deal with this, knowing Sendak will chase me for the rest of m life until he gets his hands on me to bring back to the Garla. I will not go back there again. The only way to escape is to defeat him.”

“But do you really think he’s going to honor his word?”

Shiro peers at Keith, contemplative, knowing that Keith must be concerned about this as he is. Sendak did threaten Keith’s life with it as well.

“I don’t think he will, I think he wants the joy of defeating me and going after anyone else.”

The hunter shifts, still gazing at the area Sendak was previously in with, “Sendak is a brute. He’s sadistic as he is ruthless and is always looking to do more than what he should. He takes pleasure in it, and I have seen that he has no mercy for he wants to accomplish. He fights unfair and will use every chance he gets to exert power. He is dangerous, and he will do what he can to win.”

“I am more than aware. He is the one who helped to lead the attack at Cainhurst. He is a violent man and his death will allow my kingdom some closure to know that they have been avenged and will be able to rest.”

Keith turns his attention to Shiro and even though the ex-knight can’t see the facial expression, he knows he has Keith’s attention. “Sendak will not fight fair, it is highly unlikely that he will honor the word he has given, but that doesn’t mean that you have no chance to win. We’ll just have to best him and outwit what he thinks he should do.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Perhaps he should have knocked first to proceed with his proposal.

They’re back at Allura’s house, having explained to her what had transpired and what their plans were, and she agreed that she was going to help them. She had heard of Sendak, his name having travelled far and wide because of the brutality he executes when he’s on a mission. His tactics are well heard of throughout the area, even feared in many circles that has led to the refusal to have anything to do with whatever Sendak is involved in. Allura, after having left her bed that she admitted to lounging in all day with the other two women that also live within the house’s walls, sets up a plan and begins to try to study the magic that is within the arm.

She is a master at arcane magic, having come from a long line of alchemists that specialize in knowing about arcane magic. She tries to extract some of it, grasping onto it to take some in a superficial way, just enough to not cause any harm to Shiro’s being. It’s difficult or her to get even a little bit as the magic is actively resisting her and it takes much more effort than she would like to admit just for a small portion. It’s obviously taken a lot more out of her with the way her skin goes pale and the pants that leaves her lungs as she houses a small amount of it between her hands.

Keith has stowed himself away in the room that Allura provides for him in order to perform maintenance on his blades, to sharped and clean them, and Shiro leaves him alone. He knows that Keith had done those activities the previous day and isn’t sure just how many times Keith sharpens his blades and keeps them in a top condition, but he recognizes Keith’s need to be alone and to think over just what has happened mere hours ago. Shiro doesn’t try to convince Keith to stay or to talk it our or to even share what he thinks about it—he lets Keith have this time to himself, have this time to think about what he should do. Shiro wouldn’t blame him if he were thinking about what to do if Shiro couldn’t win this match between them.

Shiro knows he’s going to ask Keith to help him train, to show him some movements and quick blocks and movements to help him move around, to help with some strength training and to try to improve on his form. He’s not sure how Sendak trains or what he focuses on, but Shiro doesn’t want to be caught off guard. He knows that Keith must have some idea how Sendak fights and what he favors—it’s obvious that strength will be Sendak’s go-to, but he may have something else planned.

He is also aware of Lance and Hunk being hunters. Lance handles firearms and is an expert at them, even going so far as to call himself a sharpshooter. Hunk is more geared toward strength, with weapons that look like they take more effort to wield and lift. He’s seen the sword with the sections in the blade—he called it a… beast cutter? He’s seen the large ax that Hunk carries, and he thinks that perhaps he can ask Hunk for some advice on how he maneuvers around with such heavy-weighted weapons.

He finds their room that they stay in that Allura told him about—they’re all friends, have known each other for a while, and she offers them a courtesy room for when they stop by to visit. Shiro makes his way to their room, hoping that they’re around and he can find them in there, or at least, have one of them be around. Shiro grasps at the door handle, opening it slowly and peering inside, their names on his tongue before he just… stops.

In front of him is an image he didn’t know exists but didn’t want to know exists.

The entire image is centered into the middle of the room, upon a bed, where there are two figures that are lacking clothes, their weapons discarded and nowhere in the picture, where there is leaner, lither figure that bends over a larger figure of muscle, skin tones similar but one of a darker hue. Both of them are startled, looking back at Shiro who has also frozen in place, unable to get over the fact that he is staring at Lance’s naked ass, placed in between Hunk’s legs with the larger man’s legs over his shoulders.

They all stare at each other, neither of them saying anything, all seeming to be frozen in place and unable to move or make the first move because that means acknowledging that they’re all in this situation. Shiro’s mouth opens but closes, going through the motions of a fish flopping around on land as he is utterly helpless to figuring out what he should do. His body decides for him, slowly pulling away and shutting the door, the last thin he sees being Lance’s naked ass still.

He doesn’t really need their help to defeat Sendak—hell, he doesn’t need to see either of them again if he can help it.

 

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s not that Shiro doesn’t want to see them, it’s not he is trying to avoid them, per se.

He just… doesn’t have a priority to see Hunk and Lance for a little bit.

 

 

\--

 

 

Wow, he really is going to have to live with that sight for the rest of his day, huh?

 

 

\--

 

 

Shiro is in the dining room, looking at all these different varieties of food that he’s not actually seen in his life when hew looks up to see Hunk and Lance making their way into the dining room, his entire body freezing momentarily before trying to calm himself back down, trying to make it seem like he’s completely and utterly unaffected.

The tense atmosphere is so thick it’s palpable.

They all avoid eye contact with each other, trying to look anywhere that doesn’t have the other in the picture, darting their eyes around the room and trying to skip over the other’s presence when their eyes inch closer toward making contact with their person. It is incredibly awkward and eve more so by knowing the atmosphere is awkward and doing all they can to not confront what is in front of them. It’s worse when either party is waiting for the other to make the move because they don’t want to be the first one to acknowledge it.

“So,” Hunk begins, “this is some really nice,” and he looks down again, “bread. Yeah, very good bread.”

“Allura really outdid herself,” is Lance’s reply.

It’s obvious that the room is set for people to come and grab food and go, set up to be some kind of expeditated snacking room where one doesn’t have to spend much time picking and choosing what kind of food they want to consume. It’s set up like a bar would, where instead of alcohol being on display in assorted collections. It’s plates of food that are set up on different tables, each with their own display of arranged plants and carved figurines made from fruit—it’s a display Shiro hasn’t seen before but maybe this is how other wealthy families do it.

Do it…

_Oh._

“I can’t do this anymore!” is Lance’s wail, throwing his hands up, unable to take ( _god_ …) the atmosphere any longer. He’s got his hands on his hips, head tilted down as he sighs heavily while Hunk seems to be relieved, his shoulders less tense and less like he’s trying to look for any excuse to not be around Shiro anymore.

“I am very sorry that I hadn’t considered to knock on your door,” Shiro begins, trying to find the diplomatic words to express to keep the situation from escalating. “I really didn’t mean to intrude on your pri—”

“It’s… okay, it’s fine,” Hunk says, “I mean, I feel like this is something out there trying to get back at us for all the times we have walked in on Allura.”

“Just… please knock next time,” Lance says, “at least give us time to be decent. Walking in can lead to… that,” and he raises his hand to scratch at the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed about it. “I know only Hunk is the one who wants to see me like that—”

“ _Lance_.”

“—but please, just know so you don’t have to see that.”

Shiro nods, a tight smile on his face as he tries to be friendly about it. “I really am sorry for that. I didn’t mean to interrupt both of you.”

Lance waves his hand. “I’m also sorry that you had to witness that. Now I know how Allura feels when we interrupt her time with Luka and Romelle. I mean, I always thought it to be a little amusing to see her lose her composure because she’s normally so calm and collected. It’s that wealthy family in her that keeps it that way.”

“This is why we were walked in on, Lance. Practice better manners and that won’t happen.”

“Those are minor details.”

It’s good to know that all of this wasn’t taken to heart and hasn’t upset the balance of their relationship with each other as it is a huge weight of Shiro’s chest. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face as holds his hand there, taking a deep breath before exhaling at the severity of the situation finally being pushed aside for a lighter feel. Letting his hand fall away, and now that there isn’t this awkward conversation between them, he thinks of what he has originally planned to ask them.

“I was going to request something from both of you.”

This stops their small bickering, both turning to give Shiro their attention. There’s curiosity on both of their faces but it doesn’t necessarily tell of acceptance or of rejection, but so far, there isn’t a negative reaction that Shiro can tell.

“I was approached by Sendak today.”

The entire mood of the dining shifts almost visibly, where the light-hearted and somewhat still lingering awkwardness visibly crumbles into a mess on the floor as what replaces it is a darker, thicker atmosphere as the others sober into something more serious.

“What did he want?” comes Lance’s voice, darker and edged, much more than what Shiro has ever heard from him.

“He is the man who helped to lead the attack on Cainhurst, who helped to slaughter my kingdom. He recognized me instantly and said the Church has an investment in this arm,” Shiro brings up said arm, a loose fist created before he lets it release, fingers slowly unfurling, “and the Healing Church would be more than happy to retrieve it He offered me a match: if I win, he will leave me alone—”

“That is very doubtful, knowing Sendak,” Hunk interjects.

Shiro agrees, but continues with, “but the second option is if he wins, I have to come back with him to the Galra.”

“You can’t seriously agree to any of that! Sendak is a cheat he is underhanded and will stop at nothing to win.” Hunk’s voice is a little frantic, unbelieving of what Shiro has chosen.

“I don’t have much of a choice, Hunk. I will spend the rest of my days hunted by the Galra because of this arm,” and he clenches his fingers back into a fist before he lowers it back to his side, “I cannot defend myself for the rest of my life, I won’t be able to live peacefully as long as they exist—as long as  _Sendak_  exists. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life running and hiding from them, from him. I can’t do that forever.”

Lance and Hunk look at each other, communicating whatever it is that doesn’t need words t be expressed for it. Lance’s eyes close as his chest heaves. “Look, I get it,” and he opens his eyes again, staring back at Shiro, “you can’t spend your life running, it is impossible to do that when the Church has such influence everywhere. But,” and this is where his shoulders sag, “it’s Sendak. He’s known for being underhanded and ruthless and has been known to go behind his promises. Are you sure you have no other option?”

The ex-knight wishes he did—there’s a lot of things he wishes to have a second chance on, there are things he wishes that he could have done more to prevent, but that’s the past, there is no changing of the past and dwelling on it any further will cause nothing but a pain unable to treated. There many things that deserve a second chance and Shiro has been chosen worthy of receiving such a chance and he will not squander it.

“There really isn’t. He involved Keith in it, threatened his life as well.”

“He’s just threatening everyone left and right.”

“That’s what he does, Hunk.”

“I was going to ask either of you for help. If either of you know anything about Sendak and how he fights. What he may have weaknesses against, what are his faults—any kind of information would help.”

Hunk and Lance look at each other again before Hunk hesitantly looks at Shiro. “I wouldn’t say he has a fighting style. He plays dirty, he doesn’t like to fight fair, and will do what he can to make you lose your composure, He has that arm of his, like yours, that has arcane magic and he can use some of it like a projectile.”

“If you’ve ever fought a brainsucker, he kind of uses his magic like that.”

The ex-knight doesn’t know what a brainsucker is, but it doesn’t sound like it’s very good.

“Ugh, I  _hate_ brainsuckers,” Lance complains. “They’re annoying with magic. It’s hard to get a good sniper bullet into them when they’re constantly throwing out magic.”

“It’s okay, my friend, they hate us, too.” Hunk pats Lance’s shoulder.

Shiro smiles at their display, his heart warmed by how familiar the two are. It’s apparent they’ve spent a long time together and do everything together. Shiro doesn’t think he’s seen one without the other, or one of them is never too far from the other. It’s adorable in many ways, to see their bickering and banter not go beyond a superficial level that at the end of the day, they just brush off whatever comments were made and fall into each other in private.

It must be nice to have something to hold onto like that.

“Anyways, just be careful with Sendak,” and Hunk is looking at him with concern. “He is a very formidable opponent and he will not fight fair. He will do all he can to get the upper hand. I would not expect him to head to the rules he had set, but just be prepared.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Shiro decides he’s going to find Keith and ask to spar with him.

Keith has proven to be a formidable opponent when they face off with each other, remembering the man times Keith had taken him down, the times where Shiro almost succeeded in putting Keith on the ground and subduing him only for Keith to find some kind of loophole in his stance to wriggle out of before turning it on him again. Keith was very agile, he’s thin and lithe and flexible, knowing how to use that against enemies that are bigger than him, and it shows in the way how he expertly maneuvers himself through small openings that Shiro never thought possible.

It makes it all the more of a wise choice for Keith to be the one to spar with him.

Keith is still in his room, a cloth laid out with various instruments, with a few stones strung around him, some kind of small slab that’s black in nature. Keith is working diligently and focused on his blades before he looks up.

Shiro stops to take in what is before him.

Keith’s hair is down again, a cascade of midnight waterfalls down his body, along his shoulders and down his back that’s messy in ways that Shiro wants to run his fingers through it and continue to make it even more of a mess. He wants to feel those strands along his palms and clenched in between his fingers as he pulls on the hair, wanting to watch Keith’s back arch under him as Shiro uses the hair for leverage to keep Keith in place as he ruts his hips forward—

Now is not the time for that.

Keith’s eyes are focused on his as he sets his blade down with the other, turning to give his attention to Shiro. The ex-knight nearly forgets what he had come here to say, momentarily distracted by the display of wild hair that is free of its braid.

“I have come to ask that I spar with you. I want to train with someone who knows how to handle a blade and can hold their own. You are the one who I haven’t been able to best yet, and I can think of no person better than to ask that of you.”

Keith looks at him for a moment longer before he looks away, his gaze landing on the blades beside him and materials that are spread out around him. His hair fair more into his face, obscuring his eyes almost to the point where Shiro can’t make them out as his shoulders sag.

“Shiro,” and there’s a resolute quality in it, “I don’t know I’m the right one to ask that. I don’t know how Sendak will want to fight. His style is never the same as he’s constantly not abiding by his own rules.

“I’m beginning to hear that a lot.”

Keith reaches out to grasp at another blade, “Sendak is a vile person, he stops at nothing to get what he wants. My style of fighting won’t be like fighting him.”

“I want to at least try, Keith. I don’t stand a chance if I don’t try at all.”

Shiro paces further into the room, stopping to turn and shut the door behind him, not wanting any interruptions. “Look, I understand if you think I may not stand a chance against Sendak—”

“I never did say that,” Keith interrupts.

“—and it’s fine, okay, I get it. I am out of practice, I am not as good as I used to be, but I need to get myself back into it. I want your help, Keith. I want to be able to stop him,” he comes closer, placing himself in front of Keith who hasn’t looked at him, “I want to stop him from trying to hurt anyone else,” Shiro allows his knees to fold, lowering himself until his knees hit the floor, “and most importantly, I don’t want him to come after you because he’s bound and determined to destroy anything associated with me, a Vileblood. I can’t—I won’t accept others being hurt because of that man’s hatred toward me.”

Keith looks down as him, hair framing his face in a way that softens his features that Shiro wants to reach out and trace his fingers along. But he doesn’t, he holds himself there, trying to convey just how much he doesn’t want this to happen, how he won’t accept Keith getting hurt because of a man’s bloodlust he has against him. His burden shouldn’t be placed on anyone else but him, his burden shouldn’t be reaching out to extend vicious fingers along anyone else. Keith deserves to be safe, everyone deserves a chance to no longer be threatened by Sendak.

Keith looks away, turning his face away as Shiro is given a view of his neck, pale in the soft light provided by the lamps. For a moment, just a moment, Shiro thinks about his teeth along the skin there, seeing the marks that he can lay there, blemishing the skin there for all to see. He’d paint it with his own marks, he’d let flowers of purples and reds bloom under the skin with his mouth nurturing them, encouraging them to grow into the vivid colors he knows they can be.

“I know you mean well, Shiro,” and Keith still isn’t looking at him, “but this a fight that you may not win. I have accepted that things can go badly, I have accepted that Sendak won’t stay true to his word,” and finally, finally, Keith looks at him, “but you dying because Sendak wants to fulfill his revenge against you, knowing that I could have helped you but couldn’t—I won’t be able to live with that. I can’t watch Sendak go through with killing you all because you want to protect me. For what? Some heretic that has no family and a short life because he’s a hunter? You should save yourself, Shiro. Sendak isn’t the only person in the Galra, they’re going to keep coming back. They’re going to continue to hunt. There isn’t much that can be done, Shiro. Be real here, what is there to be done?”

Keith has many points—his truths are harsh and none of it has been sweetened to soften the blow. Keith is a realist, he lives in only seeing what proper truths will occur and takes no time entertaining anything else that can happen. It’s obvious that the hunter has lived like this for all of his life, not relying on half-truths or what ifs that could mean something else when what will happen will be something different.

Shiro finds Keith’s eyes and stares into them, making sure that Keith will see him and not anything else. “I know, I understand the risks, but I can’t run from this. I can’t let Sendak go on knowing that he is a cruel man and will do whatever he wants to people. He is someone that needs to be stopped, he is the murderer of my people, he is a man that needs to see justice done to him for the deeds he has committed.”

His hands raise, hesitating before they find Keith’s thighs. He can see Keith’s eyes flicker down to his hands that linger there, but Shiro needs to get his point across. “I will do this, Keith, I am going to see that Sendak cannot do any harm to anyone, that he will try to come after you, after Hunk and Lance, after Allura—he will not be able to do anymore harm. I just need your help to accomplish that.”

The smaller man’s lips thin somewhat as he’s thinking over what Shiro has said. His eyes are transfixed on where Shiro’s hands are, resting upon on his thighs and Shiro figures he should remover his hands as Keith has displayed a bit of aversion to touch. The ex-knight lets his hands slide of Keith’s laps as he extends his legs, standing up and looking down as Keith who follows his track. They both stare at each other, not taking a moment to speak or do anything. Shiro takes it upon himself to interrupt the silence.

“Please, I just need your help. I understand if you don’t want to, that it may be futile, but I have to try, I have to do something about it.”

Keith stares at him longer, his eyes narrowed before he closes them, his shoulders dropping and his body relaxing in their tension as his chin drops, a reluctant, “I’ll help you,” and raising his head back up after a moment. “I will do what I can to help you. It won’t be what Sendak does or even comes close, but since you so wish it, I will help you.”

A soft smile sprawls along Shiro’s mouth as he is weighted down with gratitude for Keith doing this.

“Thank you, Keith. I really am grateful for this,”

“Yeah, well…” Keith trails off, his bottom jaw moving as his teeth slide past each other. He looks reluctant to admit any of it, but this is what Shiro will take.

If he were to really think about it, he’d note the hue of Keith’s cheeks, warmer than usual than what the glow of the lamp could ever create on his face.

 

 

\--

 

 

It is the arrival of the day.

Shiro and Keith make their way to the Grand Cathedral, up the lengthy number of stairs that lacks people on this day. There isn’t anyone scaling the stairs, there isn’t prostitutes that hag around on some of the rails, there aren’t children that sit on the stairs—it’s quiet and lacks people, a stark change that they’re used to seeing. There’s normally a bustle of people that hang around in the area, close to the Cathedral Ward where incense is burned to ward off all manner of beasts, seeking solace and asylum with the Cathedral Ward. Shiro doesn’t know who runs the Ward, but he is grateful that there is someone out there willing to help people and give them a place to shelter in out of the kindness of their heart.

They both walk up the stairs in silence as there is nothing to be said, nothing to be held between them as neither seem to want it to be their last conversation between each other.

The doors to the Grand Cathedral come into view, up the last stretch of stairs and beyond those doors, beyond what is hidden from them, is Sendak waiting for them, for Shiro.

Shiro is at the base of the stairs for the last ladder of them, staring up at the doors, open and waiting for Shiro to come closer, beckoning him to come and meet the potential end of his existence. He takes a breath, readying himself before he turns to Keith.

“It’s okay if you wish to no longer continue with me down this path.”

Keith doesn’t move for a moment before looking at him. “It’s my choice, Shiro. I will also see this to the end.”

“You don’t have to for my sake. It’s alright if you wish to leave—”

“If you say that one more time, there won’t be any of you left for Sendak to fight.”

That earns a surprised laugh from Shiro.

There’s nothing else they can really say to each other beyond words that will have no meaning to them in the end.

It’s at the top of the stairs, in front of the tall, wide doors does the anxiety begin to trickle into Shiro’s stomach, does it begin to coalesce and thicken into a sludge that tries to coast his soft and vulnerable insides to drown them and win out over this brevity that Shiro feels, his resolution to finally defeat Sendak.

He pushes through the doors with Keith following behind him. He gazes up the last part of the stairs that are inside, looking at the strange statues that line the sides of the stairs, holding what looks to be spears. Their odd, misshapen heads do nothing to jog anything within Shiro’s mind or if he has seen them anywhere before. He certainly has never seen them before now, knowing that he’d recognize them from somewhere. They’re like a guard in a way, trying to protect whatever is in here which is a funny thought when it’s Sendak that lies within weight.

He puts one foot on the bottom stair, hands flexing and clenching at his sides, trying to ward off the nervous energy that begins to fluctuate his breathing, trying to do all it can to make this seem like a situation that may be hopeless. He can’t let himself give into that, he can’t let himself crumble within the face of the challenge he has accepted, that he has resolved to be the one thing he will try his very best win. It is his chance to finally end the reign of terror that Sendak has trailing behind him to wherever he goes. Sendak is a formidable person, he has shown to have such an evil within his soul with how little he cares about humanity and the acts he is willing to commit in order achieve the desires he so seeks. With something so willing to turn his back on mercy, Shiro knows he’s going to be facing someone that will pull out all the stops to achieve the desires that he reaches for.

“You can do this, Shiro,” is Keith voice, soft and lowly encouraging. Shiro takes a deep breath to calm himself.

He takes the next step, feeling like he’s watching himself take these steps, that he’s not the one that’s moving his body, that he’s not actually in control of himself. It’s an odd feeling, like he’s placed outside of his body and watching through a windowpane as his body functions without any input from him. It feels surreal to be walking up these stairs, to know that he may be walking toward his death, that he could be leading Keith to his death when Sendak finishes with him. That is a sour thought that grates against his tongue as he wants to reject the taste of it, but it could very well be true.

Shiro overcomes the last of the stairs as he arrives at the top of them.

There, against the backdrop of a grand room, placed against a large altar highlighted with the soft glow of candles against the moonlight that streams into the room through large, floor to ceiling windows, stands Sendak, his arms crossed, his figure imposing against the large special room inside. He stands there, his back rigid and straight, his face impassive, watching them as they come closer to the man’s position. Shiro’s hand twitches before he feels a rush through his body as it tells him his magic is reacting and filling the confines of his arm. That white glow tinged with blue is back, highlighting his arm and giving way to its presence.

“It’s good to see that you made it, Vileblood. I was under the impression that you wouldn’t come in a show of how cowardly your people are.”

Those are just taunts meant to rile him up, they mean nothing to him and Shiro repeats this the loser he comes to Sendak. They’re just meant for him to lose his cool, they’re meant for him to lose sight of what he knows he should be focusing on. Sendak will have no power over him, he will have no way to get to Shiro beyond the challenge that he issues.

Shiro stops when he deems it fit to be a certain amount of distance away.

“I have waited for so long; did you know that? To be able to take down the last Vileblood, to beat you down and show the world what kind of people you truly are. The Galra are going to reward me dearly for bringing you back in.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.” His voice is calmer than what Shiro feels, but he takes pleasure in seeing the frown that mars Sendak’s face.

“Really? You think you can resist my power?”

“I don’t think. I know I can, and I will.”

“Hm, give someone the illusion of freedom and they think they’re better than what they truly are.

The ex-knight’s metal hand clenches, the magic trying to flare up in him in a way he’s never encountered before, as if it’s reacting to him and the emotions that are racing through him. Sendak seems to notice this, his mouth splitting wide with a grin. “I see you’re becoming acquainted with the arcane magi within that arm. I know the Galra will be pleased to know that the forbidden magic they put into that arm can be utilized.” Send closes his eyes are he lets his head fall forward. “But… no matter…”

His body moves in a flash, raising his left arm as he changes his stance, widening them as he angles his left side toward Shiro, arm extended outward as his fingers open wide, his palm toward Shiro as a collection of white energy gathers into his palm before it is launched at Shiro. Instead of Shiro moving out of the way, he is pushed, hands along his back as he is forced from his position. Shiro hits the grounds, grimacing at the impact before he rights himself, turning his body around—

Keith is caught within a white circle of energy, holding him in place as he struggles, grunting with effort as it’s all futile.

“Keith!” is frantic as Shiro stands and readies himself to make his way toward Keith.

“Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Shiro.”

Sendak is moving, dashing toward him and past him but not before Shiro dives after him, but Sendak is faster, dodging out of the way as Shiro grasps at air previously occupied by Sendak.

“Don’t you move, Shiro. I would hate to see the backup your brought to this fight see any harm come over him.”

Ah, this is Sendak’s trick.

Sendak walks toward Keith who remains caught in the ring of arcane magic. Sendak stands in front of him, staring down at the struggling man before he lifts one hand, swinging it across Keith’s face and knocks the mask off his face, sliding across the floor as Keith’s body is stunned from the impact.

“Sendak, don’t! You’re fight is with me, not him!”

“Don’t worry, Shiro. I don’t plan to do anything to him until I have your blood on my hands.” Sendak continues to stare at Keith who is not glaring at him, blood on his mouth from where the mask must have scraped against as it was removed from his face forcefully. “I’m just merely making sure that he doesn’t try to enter the battle with you. Your fight is with me and me alone. No one else is permitted to join with you.”

Keith still struggles but he doesn’t take his eyes off Sendak, standing in front of him with so much of a size difference that it would seem comical to anyone who didn’t know the context of what was happening. “Hm, why should I kill you after I have made a fool of this Vileblood when I can think of better uses for you, Crow? Why waste that pretty face on death when I can put you in a personal brothel? I can see that you would draw all kinds of crowds that desire a pretty face.”

Keith’s face becomes more angry, his face snarling as his lips part to show teeth, gritted and angry as he spits, “I would never let you do that to me. Keep dreaming of that day, Sendak, because it will never come true.”

“Imagine, one of the most known hunters, in a brothel, giving service to men? There would be many to come just to see you there. Perhaps I could make you my personal slave, only just for me and no one else. How would that sound? I’d love to see what kinds of screams you make—"

Sendak has lost sight of what he was originally doing, too busy caught up in this fantasy of power and holding it over Keith that Shiro takes advantage of the lapse in judgement. He’s running toward Sendak, his fist raised, arcane magic flowing within his arm that is centered into his fist as he bends his knees and jumps, his fist coming down to slam into Sendak’s side. There’s a gasp of pain hat is followed by pained noises and struggles of breath as Sendak stumbles from Keith, his feet scrambling to get ahold of his stance and orient himself into something that has dignity behind it.

Shiro doesn’t let up, knowing that when Sendak recovers, he’s going to try to use Keith’s current position to hold Shiro’s attacks off. He’s running forward fist raised again as barrels another into Sendak’s chest, the impact knocking the air from him in a pained wheeze as he trips back, landing on his backside as Shiro brings down another fist. This time, Sendak recovers, rolling out of the way but his movements are still jerky, bordering on uncoordinated. He stumbles again before his feet become stable, staring at Shiro with unconcealed hatred as his arm begins to light with arcane magic.

“You’ll pay for that, Vilebl—”

Shiro doesn’t stop, knowing that Sendak is injured and will try to regain himself in order to fight, but knowing those injuries will slow the man down. He runs at Sendak, hand clenched as he throws a punch forward for Sendak to step to the side, placing himself on Shiro’s side as he brings down his fist. Shiro catches himself just in time as he slams a foot into the ground and uses it to push himself back, narrowly avoiding Sendak’s fist. Shiro regains his footing and launches forward, slamming another fist into his side that causes Sendak to cough out blood, but he twists away from the man. It’s not enough to stop him as Sendak comes back at him. Sendak throws another fist that Shiro rolls under, landing to get one foot in front of him to push off to throw another punch. Sendak avoids it back stepping back and pushing himself forward, a yell from his mouth he brings the fist down. It slams down on the ground but Sendak uses his momentum to bring it back up, the claws (he didn’t even notice those) scraping against the ground as they come up and slash at Shiro’s flesh arm, wincing as the blood sprays and twisting away from Sendak.

Shiro steps back and knows he can’t recover as much as he would like to and continues to launch forward. Sendak pushes forward but stops as Shiro is moving forward, realizing what Sendak is planning but pulling away too late as the larger man brings up his other hand that has a knife in it, slashing toward Shiro’s chest. He twists pulling back but Sendak makes a slash along his shoulder, blood following the knife as Shiro stumbles back.

He’s breathing heavily, trying to figure out his next move.

Sendak has a grin on his face, holding the knife in a protective position that guards his face, ready to launch another attack. That knife is going to make it impossible to get in a close range. Sendak can use that that when Shiro is close, when his arm is preoccupied and Shiro can’t do enough to defend against it.

He’s injured but also knows that the other man has injures and there’s nothing he can really do to best Sendak as long as he has that knife. His shoulder aches, the slash is stinging and oozing blood, and he’s beginning to run out of steam. He doesn’t have any blood vials as those are with Keith. Shiro glances at Keith, still held within the circle of the magic created, struggling but not as fiercely as he would, noticing that it’s futile to escape the ring of magic, probably conserving his energy in case something does happen and not wasting it on struggles that would be all for not.

“What’s the matter, Vileblood  _filth_?” and Sendak allows his teeth to show through his smirk. “Have you come to realize that your existence is meant to be destroyed? Have you finally understood that your place is within the ground itself?”

Shiro’s body assumes a defensive crouch, his shoulder hunching as his arms raise, one foot sliding back to gain a better footing and to make his stance steadier. He glances at Sendak’s blade, stained with his blood and gripped harshly within the man’s grasp, knowing that with that knife, Sendak has a better chance of besting him. Sendak never said anything about barring weapons from their personal battle, so it doesn’t actually count as an underhanded tactic, but Shiro has a feeling that the other man left their options open in the case of him advancing to a lost victory.

He needs to get that knife from the larger man or Sendak is going to stop all of his close-ranged attacks. Shiro’s attacks are not meant for distance, he needs to be up close in order to land his attacks but Sendak is preventing that.

Shiro wants to look back at Keith ad see how he is doing but Shiro isn’t sure of the extent of the arcane magic that Sendak holds and needs to keep the man distracted enough to stop him from thinking of using Keith as some sort of bargaining chip to stop him. It was already a mistake enough to not try to keep rebuffing Keith’s adamant demands to accompany him to his fight with Sendak and the guilt would compile higher if Keith were hurt because of his actions and not considering how the future could be affected by their decisions. It’s not his fault, he knows, and Keith was very clear that he understood the risks but that Shiro wasn’t going to stop him from wanting to see this all the way through. Keith’s stubbornness can be admired for a myriad of reasons that are all meant for a good cause but ultimately, that stubborn quality could ultimately by the hunter’s undoing one day.

Shiro looks for an opening in Sendak’s crouch, for a weak spot that he may be favoring a more defensive position on to hide it from Shiro’s eyes. It’s right there, the side Shiro was able to hit, that Sendak is more hunched over, his stomach curled in on the side to protect it further. It must be what he needs to aim for. Shifting his foot back and positioning himself, Shiro shoots forward.

“That’s it, Vileblood,” Sendak taunts, a maniacal gleam within his eyes and an open-mouthed grin on his face, “come toward me, show me how desperate you are to die by my hand!”

Shiro allows arcane magic to fill his arm, lets it permeate thickly and alight the surface of it as he closes the gap of space between him and Sendak as the other larger man starts to run toward him, knife raising as his other arm follows, raising and alighting with arcane magic, no doubt meant as the primary means of attacking Shiro as his knife becomes the backup for a missed shot at their inevitable close range. Sendak rears his arm back, a yell erupting from his mouth as he backs down his arm, slamming it into the ground as Shiro side steps it, having to stop and jerk back as Sendak takes the momentum in stride and shifts, his footing reorienting so he can slide his arm across the floor, gauging into it and dislodging stone as he makes a swipe at Shiro.

The scarred man narrowly escapes the slash of that arm but Sendak pushes forward, knife clenched and raising as he is ready and poised to thrust it into Shiro’s direction, aiming for anywhere in hopes of damaging Shiro even just a fraction enough to slow him down to deliver a lethal attack. Shiro looks at the knife and makes a split-second decision.

He raised his metal arm and stops Sendak from slamming it into his body, the blade slamming into his arm and the momentum forcing it up and over his arm as Shiro digs his foot into the ground behind him, the other pushing forward to help retain a balance as he comes neatly face to face with the larger man. His teeth are gritted, eyes narrowed as he stares down Shiro, grunting as he tries bringing the other arm up to slam into Shiro. Instead of trying to figure out how to stop it, the ex-knight jerks his metal arm back, catching against the knife and yanking it from Sendak’s grasp but he doesn’t dodge fast enough as Sendak brings his other arm up to slam it against his side, hitting Shiro with the strength of arcane magic behind it.

It knows the ex-knight to the side, the air forced from his lungs as he coughs from the impact, his body flinging to the side as it rolls along the floor, the stone and ridged designs of the floor biting into his body. He comes to a stop, gasping as he gets his knees under him, rising up on scraped elbows as hair begins to cling to his skin with sweat, gasping heavily, hunching into his body as his back arches. The heavy stomps of feet grow louder as Shiro looks to the side, seeing Sendak running toward him, fist raised as he brings it down onto Shiro, another yell accompanying the attack. The ground beneath his previously-occupied spot cracks and splinters, the stone snapping with the force of the impact, echoing through the mostly empty room. Dirt is forced from between the cracks and makes a mess of the surrounding area.

The ex-knight rolls out of the way, unable to pay attention to where he’s rolling but knowing he needs to move and get out of the way and gain some distance between him and the larger man, but Sendak follows, relentless in his movements to keep attacking. His side throbs, his ribs bruised and jostled as Shiro knows that another attack like that will hinder his efforts to win this against Sendak. His teeth grind together in an effort to stave off the white-hot pain that laces through his ribs and along his side as it protests his body’s movements. Shiro stands just in time to see Sendak bear down on his, his own comically large arm coming down that Shiro raises his own to catch Sendak’s fist, feeling the quake of his own arm at catching it. Shire is forced back a small distance from the impact, his knees nearly giving out from the amount of force.

Sendak uses his own free hand to bring a fist toward his stomach but Shiro catches the one and it begins a test to see who can apply more force to push the other one back. There is no give, only the sounds of grunts and growls of frustration at the other’s refusal to give. Sendak is staring straight into Shiro’s eyes where all of his hatred and disgust for who Shiro is and everything that he stands for is so vividly on display in a way that’s almost as a physical touch against his body. Sendak pushes forward, his weight larger than Shiro’s and it pushes him back, his arms straining to keep up with the force as it begins to push Shiro down, his knees bending and collapsing until a knee is pushing into the ground, the bigger man’s smirk on full display.

“What is the matter, Vileblood?” and his voice is strained with the effort of continuing to push forward, “have you finally realized it was a wasted effort to challenge me?”

“You’re so sure of yourself, Sendak,” Shiro grunts, craning his head upward to look at the larger man.

“You’re a fool to believe you would ever win against me. I slaughtered your pitiful people like they deserved. What makes you think,” and Sendak pushes forward, pushing Shiro down even further, “that you  _ever_  had a chance to defeat me?”

Sweat is eating along the smaller man’s back, along his forehead, his muscles straining with the effort of keeping up, the shaking and training telling him that he is close to giving out but Sendak gives no sign of beginning to fail at keeping up the effort needed to keep Shiro at bay. He needs to win this, he needs to find the strength to force his way through this and out the other side where Sendak will never see the light of day from it.

But his strength is failing him, Sendak is pushing him down and the moment his muscles give out if the moment that Sendak will take his lethal attack and extinguish the very last of the Vilebloods.

Shiro shifts his stance, “you’re the fool who thought he could finish me,” and Shiro jerks his arms down, pulling Sendak with him. He barely sees the change in the other man’s expression, the surprised shock at the shift of power and his weight pushing forward toward Shiro as Shuro stands up, leaning his head down and lamming the top of his head into Sendak’s face. He barely feels the crack of Sendak’s nose against him, doesn’t recognize the blood that begins to pour from it as Sendak tires to let goof Shiro’s hands.

Shiro doesn’t relent and does it again, the pain radiating through his head at a severe pace but becomes secondary to the amount of damage he knows he is inflicting onto the other man. The larger man’s yells of pain do little to deter Shiro as he does it one more time before he lets Sendak go and stumbling back, his feet almost uncoordinated as he tries to gain a grip on the pain that is also shooting through his head,

Sendak stumbles back, hands coming to grasp at his face, smearing the blood along his face, fingers coming to cradle the mess that is his nose, smashed flat on his face and angled wrong with broken cartilage that helps to deform it even further. Shiro takes this moment to move forward, magic filling through his arm as he aims a punch toward the other man that lands into the man’s sternum. It forces Sendak back even more, hands lower and Shiro takes that moment to aim another one toward his face, putting as much pressure behind it as it makes contact with Sendak’s face.

With Sendak unguarded, Shiro rears his arm back, allowing the magic to continue to flow before he straightens his palm, his mind blanking out as all his thoughts collapse into one single-minded goal.

He angles his palm and shoots his arm upward, fingers pointed and ready and—

He shoves his hand through Sendak’s chest, through flesh and ribs and blood that part as his hand makes its way out of Sendak’s back.

Sendak makes a choked sound, gasping and wet as he chokes as blood wells into his mouth to leak out in thick rivulets of his mouth, his entire body freezing as his mind is catching up to what has happened. His entire body shakes, hands trembling and fighting to make their way to Shiro’s body, obviously requiring a lot of effort to even try to move. They are placed on Shiro’s shoulder, grasping weakly as Shiro pushes his hand forward more, the sounds of flesh separating and blood gurgling out of the wound loud as Sendak gurgles again, a weak gasping noise embedded within.

Shiro’s mind is completely blank, staring up at Sendak as he watches the larger man sputter weakly, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders but with not effort or force behind them to be registered than anything more than a mild discomfort as not even the claws on Sendak’s arm is enough to pierce through his flesh. Sendak gasps again as though he’s trying to say something but there must be too much blood in his lungs to even say something, likely drowning in it.

Shiro does one last push forward, sliding in almost to his shoulder before he just his arm back, dislodging it from Sendak’s chest as Sendak stumbles back, hands raising to claw at the wound, fingers smearing blood along the wound as his feet stumble back and lose their footing, collapsing to the ground as the larger man is unable to catch himself.

He lies there, eyes wide, choking and gurgling as blood pours from the wound, eyes fixated on Shiro as he drowns in his blood and his life bleeding out from the wound before he stops, body coming to a halt as his hands fall, head lolling to the side as his eyes remain wide open, staring at nothing as his life completely drains from his body through the wound. Blood begins to surround the larger man, growing in size as Shiro stares blankly down at Sendak’s body lying on the ground, from the hole in his chest to the unseeing expression that has more blood curling down his chin.

He stands there for a moment, unable to comprehend what just happened. He doesn’t even hear anything around him as his entire focus has narrowed down to the man on the floor, the entirety of the situation unable to make an impact. Shiro stands there, still staring, as blood drips from his arm, the throbbing pain of Sendak’s earlier hit, the knife wounds he suffered not making an impact on his mind as it remains wonderfully blank. Perhaps it’s merely the end result that he can’t understand, doesn’t know how to process because Shiro never truly thought this far ahead and what will happen if he did achieve such a thing.

There’s something in the distance, vaguely registered in his mind as it grows closer.

“Shiro.”

His body doesn’t react even though his ears have processed another presence behind him. His body is loose as it is relaxed, standing in this spot as though he’s too trapped in this moment of time to really do anything. It might be shock that’s settling in as his breathing gets quicker, his arms begin to shake, his spine losing its foundation as it begins to finally crack under the dawning realization.

“Shiro.”

He really just did this, didn’t he? He really did shove his hand through Sendak’s chest, felt all that blood and flesh around him, hot and alive and—

“ _Shiro._ ”

A sharp intake of breath fills his lungs too quickly, expanding too fast and too drastically and almost hurts at that point, his body going rigid and tense as his arm alights with magic, turning himself around to see what has come up behind him. He’s going to have to fight again, he’s going to have to raise his arm and feel more blood beneath his fingers as more violence becomes the way his hands know how to survive—

It’s Keith, standing there in his space against the backdrop of such a large, emptied room of moonlight and broken stone and statues with no care for who stands before them.

Oh, right, Shiro had forgotten about Keith for a moment.

The hunter stands before him, his entire person centered within Shiro’s world, becoming only piece of sharp color as the world around him becomes unfocused and blurs into a mesh of monochrome that emphasizes Keith’s person within his view. Keith stands before him, his body relaxed, his hands raised as there is a hesitancy to his movements. He can’t see Keith’s face and if his mind were completely cognizant of all that were around him, he doesn’t know if he would be able to recognize the facial features upon the other man.

Shock is quite the experience and how it warps the perception of reality.

Keith takes a step forward and this causes a kind of violent reaction for Shiro as his entire body does a full twitch, his spine calcifying and solidifying into a ramrod straight front as his chest expands, and a noise that overcomes his ears for a moment to drown out everything and anything around him. The room has no bearing on how Shiro should be considerate to what is going on around him. This is a holy place of worship, this is a place where people come through to seek the salvation for their souls that many know they do not deserve but are desperate for an answer that will absolve them of their guilt and fears that they themselves believe they are too weak to do themselves. It is a holy place, it is a ground of worship that should be respected.

It’s too bad that Shiro is a Vileblood, one believed by the holy authority that chokes the town of Yharnam to be beyond salvation.

Keith steps forward again with more hesitancy, closing the distance with these calculated steps that Shiro bores his eyes into, his metal arm twitching, the fingers moving with an aborted attempt at curling those fingers into a fist. His eyes track Keith, ashen eyes staring with an intensity the other man must feel, the weight of it becoming a near touch against his skin. Before Keith moves any forward, he stops and allows his hands to raise, hesitating momentarily, as though there is a second guess that almost seems like a more viable idea. His hands reach toward his face, both hands gripping at the side of his hood and slowly lowering it, exposing the straps that keep Keith’s mask tied to his face.

With a slow execution, Keith unlatches them one by one, letting them drop and hang beside his face. The mask is slowly removed and exposing Keith’s face, letting Shiro see the pale features beneath that he has always cursed for their secrecy to be maintained behind the mask. Lilac-colored eyes are exposed for ash-colored ones to peruse and study them with all the open freedom they desire that doesn’t hide the amount of focus that is put upon them. Keith holds his mask as he lowers it, elbows resting in a bent position as the mask falls to the middle of Keith’s chest, seeming to fin the position desirable. He takes a deep breath, his eyes falling to the top of the mask and looking down as the mask in his gloved hands before looking back up at Shiro. He doesn’t break eye contact as his knees begin to fold, bending at the joint as he lowers to the ground to set his mask upon it, discarded from his body and allowing Shiro the ability to see all that was hidden from him in the past.

The hunter steps toward him.

“Shiro, it’s okay.”

His doesn’t react.

“It’s over.”

His lungs exhale.

“Sendak is dead.”

Dead, dead,  _dead_.

“He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Blood along his fingers and down his arm that smears along his clothes.

“Sendak can do no more.”

Feet echo loudly within his ears.

Keith moves again, slow and methodic with a deliberation to his steps that slowly begins to ease in pace when Keith is closer to him. Shiro’s face remains blank as his head languidly angles to look down at Keith the closer he comes to the larger man, the height difference between them becoming pronounced. His boots step with a softened impact, a soft tap of heels against the floor becoming the only real sound that occupies the space between them.

It’s with Keith finally positioned in front of him, gazing up at the taller man.

It with Keith standing in front of him, barred for him, exposed completely that it finally does something for Shiro. His body deflates at such a rate that catches the ex-knight off guard, his body losing all of the tension that had settled against his shoulders and pressing in between his shoulder blades that his body slumps forward. Everything becomes heavy, his knees quakes with the effort to not let themselves collapse and lose their shaky ground. His breathing becomes a strange staccato rhythm that he doesn’t know what to make of as his body goes through the routine of trying to work out what has just happened to him and beginning to prioritize what must be compartmentalized in order to help heal the remaining frayed pieces of his mind and sanity.

Keith rushes forward because he must sense what was going to happen when Shiro finally came back to himself.

He catches Shiro, getting himself under Shiro before the man could fully lose the stability that held him up. Shiro becomes a dead weight that drags them both down to the ground in an ungraceful pile of limbs that can’t do enough to make the fall graceful. Keith staggers and does as much as he can to not give out underneath eh weight, taking a few steps backward before his knees are given time to fold to try to ease the amount of dead weight that he has tried to shoulder. His knees are on the ground as Shiro goes with him, trying to position them to at least be on their knees as Shiro slumps forward, his hands finding their way into the crow feather cape, gripping harshly at the black feathers there as Shiro pulls the other man against him, crushing him against the larger man’s frame as Shiro buries his face into Keith’s shoulder.

His while body is trembling, his breaths are gasping, his body is trying to understand and deal with what just happened and what this now means. His past is in shambles, his actions were soaked in blood, his will to live has been marred with all kinds of evils—everything about him has been bred into a condition that holds such a dark purpose and it’s the fact that one of the very things that stood within his past to make the future has now been taken out of it. That one thing can longer invent the future for him can no longer choose to decide to change the script into something less linear.

Shiro is, in many ways, truly free from that terrible playwright.

Keith grunts as they are dragged down, the effort of it all catching him off guard as he takes the best effort to make sure they don’t crash into the ground.

“You’re okay, Shiro, you’re okay,” is a litany of encouraging sounds from Keith’s mouth, his own arms encircling under Shiro’s, gaining a grip on the larger man to help him be steadied and Shiro’s body and mind is trying to work through the process of understanding what he just face and what it means for his past and future. Shiro would think of this to be something to be embarrassed of, to think that all of his weakness is spilling from the frayed seems of his body to expose all those little soft and vulnerable pieces. All of the ex-knight is currently on display in this spectacular show that Keith has the first look to witness where no other person, not even Shiro’s own closest knights, were allowed to bear witness to this fall from grace.

What would Keith think of him, to see a warrior so wounded in front of him? Surely, this must cause a lot of respect to be lost to see that Shiro isn’t that strong knight that so many have come to view him as, have come to rely on him being like that. How shameful, Shiro would think, to let someone see all of the weak spots in his armor especial at such a critical time such as this.

It’s not the private affair that Shiro would want when his body can’t handle being held together anymore.

“You’re going to be okay, Shiro. It’s going to be okay,” is repeated within Shiro’s ears, the voice soft and reassuring as he’s positioned in this heap of emotions that he can’t truly decipher, his mind still trying to sort through all of the emotions and feelings that are running through his veins and saturating his blood. The very same emotions that are rearing through his throat and trying to gain access to the air around him as they crash against the back of his teeth in an attempt to pry his mouth open. It almost succeeds, the power of it is persistent but Shiro holds his tongue. He keeps those sounds down, not wanting a verbal confirmation of the current state that Shiro is in, not wanting to know the sounds of just how far he thinks he’s fallen in his knighthood.

It seems as though Sendak still had the last say even when in death.

Shiro’s lungs heave, they work in an overtime to deliver his body’s demands and threatens to overwork themselves but that is nothing compared to the need that overwhelms him to the point where it doesn’t matter if they give out. His body is trying to deal with the aftermath of his fight with Sendak, with the near-crushing realization that the man responsible for so much of the death of Cainhurst, the man who orchestrated the near demise of his sanity and the warping of his body in the name of some mission is dead with a hole gaping in his chest and the man’s blood on his fingers. He’s gone, he’s truly unable to cause Shiro anymore harm to his life.

Sendak is gone and he’s not coming back.

The realization of this that begins to sink into the underside of his skin heaves this weight from his shoulders and falling to the ground.

His face has found the space between Keith’s neck and shoulder, burying himself there as his body tries to satiate the need of comfort, for reassurance as well as the anchor it’s seeking to find its way back to the world around him.

It takes a while, breathing and trying to center himself as Keith holds Shiro secured to his body, giving encouragement every so often as he allows Shiro to use him to calm down. Shiro’s knees are aching, his legs are starting to lose their feeling from the position he’s in, and it can’t be any better for the hunter, but Shiro ignores them as long as he’s trying to get himself back together. Shiro never imagined that he’d feel this overwhelmed at being able to avenge Cainhurst and killing one of the people who were responsible for the orchestration of it. He didn’t really give it any thought, only concerned about the safety of his life and the desire to see his people have the justice they so rightly deserved. He never thought it to feel like this, like his body is rearranging itself in an attempt to deal with what he has just went through.

It’s like all the trauma he has experienced is trying to absolve itself.

With one final, shaky breath, Shiro pulls back with a leisure movement, finally noticing he wetness at the corner of his eyes and down his face but ultimately unable to bring himself to let go of Keith. He wonders how the other man feels, knowing that he has an aversion to touch but must be swallowing it down in order to accommodate Shiro. It only serves to make Shiro feel guilty and he’s ready to apologize and pull himself away, but Keith’s hands tighten at his back that stops him from pulling away completely.

He also wonders vaguely when Keith had put his mask back on to take it off again for him.

It’s funny how little details come back in an unspecified pattern when everything has passed.

Steel-colored eyes meet with violet, one in an intense stare and searching for something and the other tired and trying to figure out what to do next.

“Are you okay, Shiro?” and Keith’s voice is soft, it’s concerned, much more emotion in it than Shiro is used to hearing, especially directed at him. He shifts a little to lessen the impact on his knees, but Keith’s grip doesn’t let him go very far or move out of this position. His takes a breath, jaw unhinging to say something that will do as much to assure Keith of his current state, but nothing comes out, his throat constricting as there is an overwhelming emotion welling in his throat. He has to try a few times, each with false starts before he can finally,  _finally_ say something.

“I am—” Shiro has to breathe, “—going to be okay.”

Keith searches his eyes, looking for confirmation that Shiro doesn’t think is there. Without thinking as his mind is still trying to gather itself and thus, it lacks the restrain it normally has, his eyes move down Keith’s face. He takes in the color, the smoothness of it, the delicate curve of Keith’s nose and his high cheekbones, trailing lower to settle on the pale pink color of Keith’s lips where his eyes don’t move from for a small amount of time. It’s when he realizes what he has done, realizing the extent of his weakened self-control and the proximity of how close Keith is so there is no mistake that Keith can see where his mind has drifted off to, Shiro severs the connection his eyes have taken with Keith’s mouth.

There is no way Keith could have missed that, it’s impossible that Keith won’t understand what Shiro had bee desiring for that moment in time. He expects Keith to pull back, to let him go and allow Shiro to fall to the ground and distance himself from the ex-knight with some half-concocted excuse about the need for space between them. He’s not ready to accept that reality yet but he knows that with time, he will become accustomed to it no matter how much it’s going to hurt to lose this fledgling connection he has made with Keith.

It doesn’t come which is a confusing part for Shiro.

Instead, he’s being pulled forward, his body is shifting and knees nearly giving out with the sudden force of it as he comes closer to Keith’s face and his eyes are the last thing he see—

There’s a mouth on his own, lips that are dry against his own, colliding against his own with a force that surprises Shiro. They linger there as Shiro’s mind lags behind to catch up and understand what is going on. The force of his being pulled forward catches him off guard so much that he pitches forward, pushing his mouth against Keith’s as he scrambles to balance himself but it’s too late. He pushes Keith back with his falling body as Keith pulls away, Shiro unlatching them from Keith to catch himself from falling. The heel of his palm hits the ground and scrapes against the stone as Keith falls back, a noise from his throat not mattering as he falls to his back, hitting the groan only to groan as he must have hit his head against the ground, eyes pressed shut and mouth grimacing.

The larger man only stares down at Keith as his mind finally sort through the mess of his mind to understand what just happened, coming to him so quick that it doesn’t take much to understand what just happened.

Keith kissed him.

He made a decision to kiss him.

When that thought processes through his mind, Shiro finds himself moving before he knows it, his mind left behind in favor of his body acting. His shoulders hunch as his elbows bend, lowering his upper chest to settle nearly on top of Keith as his head moves downward, reconnecting their mouths together. Keith locks up momentarily that causes Shiro to momentarily cause Shiro to doubt himself because there are arms coming under his own, Keith’s elbows placing along his ribs as hands find their way to his back, fingers digging into the clothes on his back. Keith’s mouth pushes up against his own, the skin warm and eager that Shiro is unable to resist.

Keith’s mouth opens and Shiro surges, pushing his tongue against Keith’s before it has a chance to come out and meet with his own. Shiro tries to twine his tongue around Keith’s, marveling at the hot, slickness of his mouth. Shiro takes a moment to taste the other man’s mouth, running his tongue along all that he can reach, all the while Keith’s tongue follows him, coaxing him to meet back with his own as it gives Shiro the incentive to slide against it.

Shiro pulls back when his lungs finally catch his attention to have air, reluctant to pull away but knowing he has no chance.

He’s panting, mouth wet with Keith’s spit while knowing the other man has the same situation. The larger man stares at Keith below him, panting open-mouthed as the pale of his cheeks are lightly colored with scarlet, a sight that Shiro is more than willing to indu—

He’s pulled forward again, Keith’s mouth back on his own as the smaller man isn’t done with Shiro yet, something that Shiro is more than happy to oblige. Keith comes at him with an intensity as Shiro is surprised by the amount of energy behind it as Keith pushes into his mouth. Keith spends time trying to explore Shiro’s mouth before Shiro Is pushing back, trying to get back into Keith’s mouth as it’s becoming one of his favorite places to be.

They both part this time, louder breaths echoing through the space between them and open air around them, heavy and loud within the space. There’s spit that trails the edge of Keith’s mouth, shiny against the drier skin around it. Keith’s mouth is red, lips slightly swollen that Shiro doesn’t want to take his eyes away from the sight. He’s fascinated with how well they stand out against the color of his skin, almost enough to rival the most vivid of red-colored lipsticks that some of the more elite of Cainhurst favored.

Shiro can only hear the pants that Keith makes, the heated breaths he takes that collide into Shiro’s own skin, the color that shines on Keith’s cheeks, the slightly glassy look within Keith’s eyes as he tries to keep enough distance to not give into the urge to connect their lips again. He wants to taste Keith again, he wants to press his tongue to every piece of skin on Keith’s body, he wants to gather the taste of Keith’s skin along his tongue and take it within his body to store for later admiring. There’s so much he wants to do, there’s so much he wants to explore, but he needs to hold back and not allow himself to give in.

 

His fingers dig into the ground to anchor himself and help to keep his attention away from how much he wants to give in.

 

Keith also seems to get a hold of himself, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes—Shiro can’t help but think about sheets under Keith, crinkled and a mess and Keith’s hands gripping at them and tilting his head back even further to expose his neck to Shiro’s teeth that will no doubt trail the exposed skin there. They’d mark along the skin, bite the seeds of bruises into that skin for them to bloom bright and vivid among the skin there and admire the garden that he has created. Shiro thinks about this in such intensity that he almost misses the hunter speaking.

 

“I have been wishing to do that for a while,” and Keith’s voice is a little shaky.

 

Shiro can’t believe those words, trying to understand them further with, “for a while, now? How long?”

 

Keith breathes through his nose to exhale through his mouth, looking as though he is struggling to give a voice to his thoughts. “Ever since… I realized you could die by Sendak.”

 

This must be a new feeling for Keith and judging by how this seems to catch him off guard and takes time for him to give shape to his emotions, he’s not experienced this very much or at all.

 

“I... thought about it, about you, and how you risked your life to save me, how much I wished to repay you for that. It felt… wrong to think of you to die, and I was upset to have such an image in my thoughts.”

 

Keith is still visibly struggling, turning his head to the side to turn his eyes anywhere that doesn’t equate to him looking at Shiro. Keith’s braid is mostly neat, curled on the ground and near Shiro’s left hand. His eyes stare to off, narrowing slightly as he tries to gather himself together to get through this confession. “You were the only person who hasn’t given up on trying to help me. You were the only person who didn’t give up on me and I wanted to return the favor.”

 

“It is merely courtesy and respect that you deserve, Keith. It was more than happy to give that to you.”

 

Keith’s chest expands quickly with some unknown emotion to Shiro but it’s back to that steady rhythm. “It’s not. You would be surprised by how often man has chosen to be cruel to me. You are the first to be any different.”

 

As much as Shiro doesn’t like that thought, of Keith spending many of his days in pain and cruel treatment and no one wanting to lend him the hand and help that he desperately needed, he is honored to know that he is making a difference in Keith’s life, that Keith has chosen to acknowledge this as something precious to him. Shiro tilts his head, a smile forming against his mouth as his gaze softens.

 

“I don’t claim to know what you have been through, Keith,” he begins, purposely keeping his voice soft, “but I am honored to know my kindness has helped you. The world isn’t as cruel you think it to be. There are good people out there, good men that want to help.”

 

Keith’s eyes turn toward him, and his face follows, “you are the one who refused to give up on me. I am not willing to give up on you.”

 

There’s a bright spark that ignites within Shiro’s chest, his face softening even further despite the intense look that is on Keith’s face. To know that Keith, the fearsome hunter—a fearsome warrior, has given him his respects, his desire, ad has proved that he wants to keep Shiro within his life even further, it kindles an emotion of affection within him. No longer does he have to keep that flame doused, no longer does he have to hide the development of his attraction to Keith hidden although he’ll have to keep it low because he has a feeling that Keith isn’t used to this. As much as Shiro would like to, he knows he can’t choose to show that affection at any time. Keith has to ease himself into it by the looks of how much he’s trying to even give words to his thoughts and feelings.

 

Shiro pulls back, knowing that they can’t stay here forever on the ground as the cathedral is sort of damaged and Shiro would not like to be here to be forced to provide service to clean it up and fic it even though he considers himself a noble man. He glances over to Sendak’s body, knowing that he can’t be left here for the Galra to discover. He has to be discarded and as much as Shiro wishes to not touch his body, he has to be given an end that will keep the Healing Church from trying to retaliate.

 

“Sendak has to be taken somewhere,” is almost faraway to his own ears as he looks fully at Sendak’s body, in a pool of his own blood.

 

Keith turns his head, eyes narrowing before he sighs. “I know. The Healing Church—no, the Galra will try to find whomever has taken his life. It is best to take him to an area known for beasts. Let them take care of his remains.”

 

Keith gets his arms underneath himself to push himself up, Shiro backing off to allow Keith to stand he stands as well. His knees are a little unsteady but nowhere near the levels he was feeling earlier. They both walk slowly toward Sendak’s body as though he were to regain the life that is pooled around him, looking over the remains.

 

There’s a wear sigh from Keith again. “I know of a place.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Shiro doesn’t know if he’ll forget the look in the eyes of a scourge beast as it latches its jaws around Sendak’s shoulder, teeth plunging into the dead flesh as it drags the body into the woods—

_(“The Forbidden Woods is a place the Healing Church deemed to be dangerous. They say Byrgenwerth lies beyond these woods, decrepit and fading, but I’ve not tried to venture through these woods. I’ve no interest in fighting so many beasts that are there.” Keith sets Sendak’s body on the ground, stepping away and ushering Shiro to follow suit._

_It doesn’t take long, maybe ten or fifteen minutes of waiting, for the blood to catch the nose of a nearby beast, a roar and rustling of bushes and the snap of tree limbs echoing as a scourge beast erupts from the background. Spit is running down its mouth, its movements uncoordinated as its mind must be so focused on the smell of blood that it doesn’t try to come after them. They’re at a safe enough distance that the beast won’t feel the need to attack them over trying to claim and defend the flesh it’s so hungry for._

_It’s jaws open wide as it buries its teeth into the shoulder, snout twitching and snarling as it begins to pull back, dragging the body closer to the safety of the trees and thick brush. There is some blood that trails behind where Sendak’s body is dragged. They turn and leave but not before the snap of bones and sounds of flesh being separated begins to saturate the air.)_

—but he now doesn’t have to think about the Church trying to discover his position to avenge the death of Sendak.

 

 

\--

 

 

“I had believed that you and Pidge were involved.”

They’ve made their way back to Pidge’s shop, not willing to travel the distance to Allura’s as Shiro was still injured from Sendak’s attacks. Keith had given him a blood vial, to which Shiro grimaced having to taste it as he downed it, feeling the strange sensation of his skin knitting back together, the feeling of his ribs straightening and no longer sensitive to every breath he takes. He gives the bottle a look, face contorted into a look of disdain before he looks back at Keith.

He only shrugs. “You learn to tolerate the taste.”

What a terrible taste.

They’re both in the back of Pidge’s shop only after she had fussed at them and scolded them about their injuries and that they need to be careful. She had turned her eyes onto Keith and proceeded to tell him that he needs to not take all these risks even though he’s not the one fighting. She can sense the arcane magic on his form from Sendak and that it could have left him in a worse state than what he was in. She had calmed down after a moment, taking a deep breath before giving them a light glare, still unhappy but relieved they had both made it out with their lives.

Shiro assured Pidge that they took care of what remained of Sendak, letting the beasts in the Forbidden Woods finish off the rest of his remains, making sure that no one from the Galra or any association with the Healing Church will know he was killed in battle, that he was caught off guard by a beast. Pidge nods, glad to know that Sendak is gone and cannot use his position and skills to hurt and terrorize other people.

It takes a while for Pidge to leave, still fussing about Keith and Shiro, still trying to check them over and see if they’re okay even after they both had to tell her an in-depth recount of any and all injuries they did and may have received. Despite her pushy and stubborn attitude, Shiro does appreciate the concern.

They’re left alone in the room as Pidge makes her way back to the front of her store to assume her position back at her desk, having told them that they can stay as long as they like, “as long you do not harm any of the machines back here. I will know if you did.”

It had been quiet briefly before that had slipped from Shiro’s lips without thinking,

Keith makes a noise of confusion before he turns to Shiro, both of his brows raised.

“And what led you to believe such a thought?”

Shiro shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I had seen how Pidge reacted to you, and how you only let her see your emotion. I had assumed…”

Keith laughs—he actually laughs, and as much as Shiro enjoys the sound of that tone, he does take a slight offense to that.

“Me? And Pidge? Surely this is not true?”

“As much as I don’t want to admit it, it is.”

Keith settles back, leaning himself onto Shiro’s side, back pressed to the taller man’s side, he makes himself comfortable. Shiro enjoys the touch, allowing the hunter to take comfort against him.

“Pidge is my best friend. She is almost a sister to me. She and her family took me in after the orphanage I had been at was attacked by scourge beasts. I wandered the streets, unable to survive. It was merely chance that I came across her playing in the street and invited me to join her. I owe her my life for helping me.”

“I must thank her for helping you as it led to you helping me in my time of need.”

Shiro’s hand raises and hesitates briefly, wanting to settle it on Keith’s head to bury them into the hair there but Keith’s hair is still bound in its lengthy braid. Instead, he settles for putting it around Keith’s shoulder, allowing it to absorb the warmth of the man below it. He wants to find his fingers through Keith’s hair, he wants to feel the trads of it through his fingers and along his skin, to become familiar with the feeling of its softness and wrapped around his hands. He may have a fascination with Keith’s hair, liking the length of it and how dark it is and its contrast it has against Keith’s skin to allow it to stand out more, to pronounce the pallor of Keith’s body.

They sit there like that, enjoying the silence, Shiro thinking of what he should do, unsure of what his future should hold now that he has made it this far.

Instead, he maneuvers his hand to place his fingers against the underside of Keith’s jaw, allowing his fingers to curl against the soft skin there before he tips Keith’s chip up, meeting Keith’s eyes before he leans in for a kiss. Keith’s lips part and allow Shiro access to his mouth. It’s soft, unhurried like the frantic kisses they shared in the Grand Cathedral, as they take the time to explore each other.

“If you must do this, please take this to privacy.”

They separate quickly, having forgotten about Pidge’s presence, standing in the doorway with her hands on her small hips, trying to look more menacing and imposing that what her petite stature would allow. Perhaps if she were to bring out her stool that she needs to reach the higher places that she could try to be imposing like she is wishing to project. Her face is unimpressed.

“Ah, I am sorry, Pidge.”

“I find that hard to believe,” she says, her facial expression telling him exactly just that.

“I would hope to believe that you will be good for Keith,” she says as the mahogany-haired girl studies him as Shiro feels this akin to a stern talk about taking care of someone who is close to another, looking out for their safety.

“It’s fine, Pidge, I can handle this.” Keith gives her a glance and turns his attention back to Shiro and settling against him again. “You need not worry.”

“There is a lot I have to worry about when it comes to you.”

“This isn’t one of them.”

“You say this all the time about everything. Please excuse my desire to not believe that.”

Keith doesn’t dignify an answer back to her, content to not speak anymore as his attention is focused on lying against Shiro. Shiro smiles briefly down at the dark-haired male before he turns his attention to Pidge that still lingers in front of them.

“It’s alright, Pidge. I consider it an honor to have Keith’s affection,” and there’s a low groan from Keith that Shiro almost laughs, “I will do what I can to honor them.”

Pidge looks at him further, looking for any reason that she can doubt Shiro’s intentions. “See that you do. I have an entire arsenal of machines and arcane magic at my disposal.”

It’s not really serious due to how Pidge’s body relaxes completely, seeing no reason to interrogate Shiro the long she looks at them and the more Shiro assures her. She stops as she turns around, looking back at them—specifically, looking at Keith before a grin begins to form on her mouth. “You know, Hunk and Lance will be thrilled to know about your relationship status, Keith.”

Keith’s head jerks up as he levels a look at Pidge. “You will not speak any manner of word to them about me.”

“You know they’re going to find out, especially Hunk as he loves… well, love. It’s inevitable.”

“I’m not about to tell them yet. I desire my privacy and those two, especially Lance, will not leave me alone about it.”

“I am only warning you, Keith. It will happen.” There is a softer expression on her face, one that speaks of her affection for Keith. “You deserve to be fussed over. It’s been so long since you let someone close.”

Keith grunts but doesn’t offer anything else but the ex-knight has a feeling that Keith doesn’t want to talk about those feelings or want to mention them as Keith is still hesitant about his own feelings and the vulnerability that they present for him. Still, Pidge looks happy and content that Keith is allowing someone in his life and allowing them the opportunity to treat him in such a way that the hunter must have been denying himself of.

Shiro is content, he’s happy, and to know that he’s been granted a second chance at life, he’s willing to take it, he’s willing to overcome any more challenges that present within the future. As long as Keith is there, as long as he’s willing to stay by him through the rest of his days, then Shiro is willing to put up with whatever else may come his way.

 

 

\--

 

 

Thank whatever god above that has granted him this merciful moment for Shiro.

It’s as he stares down at Keith, hair a mess and will all over crisp, clean sheets, in rivulets of midnight color, framing his face and the pronouncing the delicate flush that makes it stand out. Those purple eyes, glazed and giving Shiro their undivided attention, staring up at him with all the desire that Shiro can feel as a weighted touch against his skin, along his spine, and all around his body in ways that should be impossible. It’s that stare that gives off the intensity of the emotion that flows within Keith’s body, that is there for Shiro to run his hands through and let them become messy with how much there is for Shiro to greedily feast upon.

He will nurture himself with all the desire from Keith’s body that he can get.

He’s got his arms placed on either side of Keith’s head, fingers buried underneath the strands of long hair as to not knot them around his fingers and that he doesn’t pull on them as he works himself into Keith’s body. His fingers are gripping into the sheets, nails biting into the material, as he uses it as something to hold onto as he drives his hips forward, burying his cock into Keith’s body with the slick slide of high grade personal oil that had been supplied to them by an eager Allura who was very happy for Keith to have found someone that was willing to stay by his side.

Shiro’s head hangs, his hair becoming slick with sweat that helps it to cling to his face and neck, curling down his skin and onto the underside of his chi to collect against the body below it. Keith’s hands also grasp at the sheets as his eyes close, his back arching as Shiro grinds into Keith’s body, his hips pressed flush against Keith’s ass as pushes into Keith with a strength that shifts Keith up the bed, a tapered down sound that tries to escape his throat but doesn’t completely make it past his clenched teeth. His mouth wants to open, it wants to let out all that sound that’s trapped within his throat that Keith seems too embarrassed to let anyone hear He’s probably embarrassed by hearing it just within his head.

His chest heaves, sweat-slickened inflating with air that’s trying to fulfill the need for new air, his blood singing with desire that makes everything feel so much more intense than what it should be. Shiro could watch the way the ribs brush up against the underside of Keith’s skin, he could watch the way Keith’s nipples are hardened and reddened with marks from Shiro’s mouth and nails that found so much time to take a moment to lavish such attention onto them, rolling them between his fingers as the flat of his tongue presses against the other one, working them both into hardness as Keith’s body shudders beneath him.

Keith’s body arches with every touch upon his skin that Shiro administers, with every graze of teeth along his neck and every mark that Shiro places upon his skin for him to return his attention to later when he wants to deepen the marks, make them more vivid against the pale canvas that is Keith’s skin. He loves their look, their placement, and knows that not even the most vivid and colorful of oils and paints could every truly match their design and hue. They are his own creation, his own masterpiece that he has turned Keith’s entire body into.

He’d never let anyone else try to gaze upon this as this is his very own personal painting, not meant for the outside to know about.

One of Shiro’s favorite things is that Keith is very responsive to his touches. Shiro has had men in his bed throughout his time as a knight, and he’s had a few serious relationships with a few of them, but none of them come close to how sensitive Keith’s body seems to be. Every twitch, every shudder, every gasp of air that follows every caress of his fingers and tongue gives Shiro such a self-satisfied feeling that he is the one to pull all these reactions from Keith. No one else has had a chance to reduce Keith into this writhing image of desire and pleasure that Shiro is more than happy to take as his own.

His hips slam against Keith, stopping as he knows he has hit that spot that makes so many men before him seize up and gasp, feeling the tightening of Keith’s muscles around him. He watches as Keith’s hand finds its way to his mouth, more than likely to muffle the sound that is trying to come out of it but Shiro can’t—won’t have that. As Keith struggles to hold back the voicing of his pleasure, Shiro dislodges one of his own hands from the sheets to grab at Keith’s wrist, momentarily taken with the difference in sizes of their hands as he briefly looks at it. He can’t believe how much bigger his own hands are, how they can wrap around Keith’s wrist, can take up so much space along Keith’s thighs. He pins that wrist beside Keith’s head, staring down at Keith as his voice comes out lowly with, “don’t even think about it, Keith. I want to hear everything that keep hidden.”

His face leans down to connect his lips with Keith’s prying those lips open with his tongue as Keith allows him to, opening and allowing an offer of himself to Shiro as Keith seems to think he can use Shiro’s mouth to keep himself muffled, but Shiro has other plans. He pulls back, staring down through the fringes of his hair at Keith as he slows down, allowing Keith time to recover himself before he truly begins to fuck Keith.

Keith seems to gain his bearings, chest still heaving as his eyes begin to open, having fallen shut earlier to keep himself under control. His mouth is open, panting, as he stares up at the ex-knight. Shiro relishes this look before he snaps his hips forward, starting a rhythm that has Keith tensing and clawing at Shiro’s hand that holds one wrist captive and the other at the sheets beneath his hand.

“S-Shiro… _fuck,_ ” and the way Keith’s voice takes on this whine that has Shiro increasing the intensity of his movements, wanting to hear more of that. He is unable to resist the desire to take those sounds for himself as he leans down to connect his mouth to Keith’s eating up those sounds before he decides he wants to mark Keith’s neck even more. His tongue traces along Keith’s chine and to the bottom of it. His teeth are scrapping along the skin as his tongue comes in behind to soothe as the marks as if to encourage them to come close to the surface of the alabaster skin.

He’s enjoying the tightness of Keith’s body, feeling the way Keith clenches around him, how hot and wet Keith is. He’s going to enjoy seeing those mark, the finger-shaped marks along his hips from earlier—everything that will remind Shiro of all the ways he has put his claim on Keith, to know that no one will ever be able to have Keith this way.

No one but him.

This causes a tightening of his hand on Keith’s wrist, pushing it further the bedding as his mouth works hard at the skin of the hunter’s neck, wanting to see them later on and have them keep their stark appearance against the man’s skin. Shiro is also aware of Keith’s other free hand raised and his fingers splaying against his back, nails digging into the skin as they scratch down his back. Shiro will be proud to see them displayed against his skin when he looks at himself in the mirror later, looking at the red lines, wanting to push his fingers against them and think about how they happened, to feel those nails again down his back and along his spine. He wants to press against all of those marks again, he wants to experience them, keep their memory alive against his skin.

Keith is everything that Shiro hopes to keep, he is everything that Shiro wants so much, and he’s always happy to indulge whenever Keith will let him have what he desires so much.

Keith is lightning in the shape of desire, and Shiro is always wanting to accept the power of that desire and let it surge through his body.

Whatever there is out there that has blessed him, that has given him Keith as a second chance, he is thankful completely.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this, y'all, and getting through my attempt at trying to write plot. I'm so out of my element with with and I appreciate y'all making it to the end. Please come talk to me about Sheith and Bloodborne or anything else @ [twitter](href=) or [tumblr](http://bottomnoctis.tumblr.com/). I'm a slut for either of those two things.


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